And She Saw
by Semper Vi
Summary: With the Triwizard Tournament on the horizon, Sebastien Delacour hires a bodyguard from an infamous program to protect his daughter. Behind silver sunglasses, the boy with dead eyes watches. The girl's enemies, a small problem. The man with five names, a small problem. The Dark Lord, a slighly larger problem. But his charge seeing through his facade, now that's a real problem.
1. 0762

**Relevent Inspiration:**

**_Deprived_ by The Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer: I'm not a Brit.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-I-

The atmosphere within the Chateau could barely have been more different from the atmosphere outside of its weather-worn stone walls. Outside, wind rustled olive trees and tall grass, waves lapped gently over serene shores of sand, and the sun smiled upon southern France. On a baby blue towel, wearing nothing but a provocatively cut white bikini, a stunningly beautiful blonde girl basked in the warmth. Though still a teen, she had a body to rival supermodels, perfect to all eyes. By any measure, she was insanely, blisteringly, attractive. However, inside the cool corridors of the sprawling home, the air was thick with tension. A youth clad in grey slacks, a crisp white turtleneck, and silver reflective sunglasses stood with his hands behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart.

Two things would have stood out to any observer; his absolute stillness, and his lack of shoes. In fact three people were watching him carefully from chairs. One sat behind a large spruce desk, a leg crossed over the other, and a hand stroking the stubble on his chin. He wore expensive robes over an even more expensive muggle suit. Beside him sat a dark-haired woman so lovely she had to be the mother of the girl tanning outside, yet she appeared to be only in her early thirties. She wore a flowing cream dress and studied the youth before her with a mixture of surprise and intensity. The final man was obviously fond of food, and his own affluent robes billowed over his belly. He had a pair of pince-nez wobbling precariously on a wide nose that in turn seemed to grow an extravagant mustache. His beady eyes were alive with mirth as he watched the other adults' reactions.

"This is who you have recommended, Louis-Gerrard? I would have thought seventeen years of service to our country would have earned me more respect in your eyes." The man behind the chair frowned at the youth, gesturing with his left hand in obvious exasperation. The woman beside him, his wife, continued the thought.

"Minister, you expect me to entrust my daughter's life to a boy of her own age? It looks like you took a child from his orphanage and gave him fine clothes. Mon Dieu his feet are still bare!"The Minister of Magical France shook his head emphatically, his triple chins swinging, and spluttered.

"Non, non, of course not Madame Delacour! I greatly appreciate all your husband has done as Chairman of the Department of Arcane Defenses, and when he reached out for a security service for your daughter I used a few old favors to contact the Akadimía. I even managed to reach _le grec _himself! He sent this young man, not I." Louis-Gerrard nodded again as he spoke, further emphasizing his innocence. However, Apolline Delacour had frozen at hearing what institution the youth in front of her represented, and she was too busy reevaluating her opinions to see her husband blanch upon hearing '_le grec'._ He too reassessed the individual before him.

Despite this revelation, the black haired boy remained stock still. His eyes, dead and emotionless behind silver lenses, locked on the French Chairman. Though hidden, they were so light as to seem clear, and pierced the very soul of Sebastian Delacour. Unused to this feeling that approached fear, Sebastian cleared his throat, and spoke.

"You represent the Akadimía?"

"Yes sir." The boy's French was flawless, the trio noted.

"I wish to hire your services."

"Do you speak as a member of the French government, or as a father?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." There was silence for a moment, before Apolline spoke.

"My husband and I are hiring you as concerned parents whose daughter could be a valuable political hostage in the upcoming elections. She could also be a target for various degenerates on behalf of her having recently reached her Veela maturity." Her husband nodded, and continued for her.

"We wish to hire you to ensure our daughters safety during the following school year. She attends Beauxbatons, and will likely take a trip to England for both the Quidditch World Cup and the tri-wizard tournament. What is your price?" The dead-eyed youth looked at the assorted adults, then turned towards the French Minister.

"Sorry sir, but transactions are to be kept strictly between the Akadimía and clients." The bubbly Louis-Gerrard nodded his head to the youth and then his friends.

"Sebastian. Apolline. I wish you two the best." And with that, he departed the room, humming a tune several notes off key. Without turning to watch the energetic man, the boy spoke once more.

"Will she be entering in the tournament?" The response was quick and emphatic.

"Absolutely not. She has been ordered not to." The youth nodded once, quick and curt, then continued.

"The standard price is five million US dollars for bodyguard work, payable in each regions equivalent currency. However, due to the international travel, massive population density of both the Tournament and the Cup, and other extenuating circumstances I must account for, it will be eight million and two unrestricted favors."

Sebastian briefly cocked an eyebrow at the mention of the favors, but nodded his head. Safety always had a price, he knew, and he'd rather pay for it with money than with freedom.

"Done. Do you require anything else? We have a room set up across from our daughter's for your use." The youth cocked his head ever so slightly as he considered.

"That would be acceptable. I need two forms of French identification, a muggle passport and a magical ID. The passport must have stamps for muggle England, Ireland, Italy, Russia, Tunisia, and Madagascar. It must also have the necessary markers for magical England, Ireland, Poland, and South Africa." Sebastian frowned, but nodded. The boy finished, "And the Magical ID must list me as a member of Function-4." Sebastian brain stopped processing anything as he stared at the boy in silver sunglasses.

"How the hell…"

"If it's a question of ability, here are my ICW MAB scores." He pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket and handed it to the Chair of the Department of Arcane Defense. Numbly, Mr. Delacour took it and unfolded the document. His wife slid to his side to look over his shoulder.

"What are these numbers, Sebastian?" She asked gently. His response was quiet.

"Every year the International Confederation of Wizards offers a series of magical and physical tests, the Military Aptitude Battery, for any wizard or witch that wishes to join the military or police of any country. The average score for a wizard is a two out of seven. Each level represents a certain amount of knowledge or skill in a magical or physical category. And in each of these categories applicants are ranked from feeble to master." Apolline looked back to the steady lines of categories, sixes and sevens filling the page beside them. The beautiful woman frowned.

"And Function-4, what is this?" Her voice was low. Sebastian sighed.

"It is a highly secretive operations team that works in tandem for both magical and muggle sides of the French government. For a wizard to even be considered, they can't have any number below a five." He shook his head. "Though few would know what the designation meant, the security clearance it comes with is significant to say the least." Regarding the young man, the Frenchman sighed. "What name do I put on the documents?"

"John Constantine." A moment of silence passed before a musical laugh trilled through the room. Sebastien Delacour looked at his wife in confusion. She covered her mouth with a hand and bit back her smile.

"It is a reference to a character in Muggle fiction." For the first time, the bodyguard seemed to almost show emotion. A corner of his lips turned ever so slightly up, the utter beginnings of a smirk. But as quickly as it appeared, the flaw on the bland face vanished. He continued.

"Finally, I need your utter faith and trust. In any situation pertaining to your daughter's well being, or the well being of her close friends and family, you must trust and obey my decisions." Apolline frowned at this.

"We are not paying you millions to protect her friends!" She seemed almost insulted by his request, however, the boy who called himself Constantine merely nodded.

"Correct, but insofar as it does not threaten your daughters life, I will endeavor to aid those with her as well. This may not physically protect her, but it will certainly help her mental health and well-being." Sebastien thought this over. Technically it was more service than he had payed for, but only an idiot would complain.

"Is there anything else that you need Mr. Constantine?"

"No. Thank you. With your permission, I wish to oversee the security here." Noticing the spark of pride burning behind the French Chairman's eyes, he continued. "Though the wards here are very strong, and I predict tied in to the physical stones of this Chateau, I still wish to search for any possible weakness. After all, it is my job." Seeing her husband ready to burst, Apolline placed her hand on his shoulder.

"That will be acceptable, do you need an escort?"

"No ma'am." The youth stiffened slightly to attention, than turned on his heel and strode out of the office." Sebastien looked at his wife.

"That boy brought out my pride so easily." He sighed in exasperation. The beauty at his side smiled.

"Stay strong my love. Pride slays even dragons." The Chairman of the French Department for Arcane Defense snapped his head to look at his wife.

"Where did you get that piece of wisdom from?"

"I had the chance to speak with the wife of the Sri Lankan Ambassador during the last gala. She was a very intelligent woman." Sebastien nodded, and looked into his wife's eyes.

"I'm scared for Fleur." He nearly lost the words, but nevertheless got them out. His voice was hoarse with emotion.

"Don't be, love. We have done the best we can for her, and now we have found someone else to that for us when she leaves."

"A boy?"

"No. A member of the Akadimía. He may look young, but any graduate of that program will be far greater than you or I in skill." She rubbed her husband's shoulders. "I trust young John Constantine." Sebastien grumbled.

* * *

John walked around the chateau. He had already circled the building twice, this would be his third and final pass. To untrained eyes, he was admiring the various tapestries and paintings, the statuettes and open windows. But to someone who knew his craft, John Constantine was assessing the wards from behind silver glasses. He couldn't see magic itself, he wasn't a seer or a warlock, but he had taught himself to be able to feel the various subtle differences between the threads of magic. He could tell the difference between a ward designed to keep cows in a pasture and one designed to kill acromantulas on contact. There was a reason he had a 7 on the Runes and Wards sections of the MAB. The first two passes he had assessed physical strength and durability of the building as well as attack and defense positions. Now, he scanned the magical defenses.

The youth paused for a moment beside what appeared to be a painting of Lancelot battling Gawain. He assessed it, feeling the different pulls of magic on his core from the enchanted canvas. He nodded and walked on, mentally adding to a tally. Passing a solid oaken door, he stopped again, and walked back to it, and opened it. Behind was a solid wall. John frowned. Cocking his head, he stared venomously at the stone blocks. It took thirty seconds before he blinked, and an audible chuckle escaped his mouth.

"That's brilliant." He spoke in a lilting English, an accented dialect he had adopted at the Acedemi. Turing 180 degrees, he faced the bland wall opposite of the door. He stepped towards the dark stone, then reached out to touch it. When his hand got close to the wall, he reached out with his magic and brushed the stones. In that split second, foot long spikes shot out from the stone and stopped at his hand. Had he flinched, the cursed trap would have spilled deadly venom into his blood stream, guaranteeing even a scratch as fatal. "The house of a Defense Minister indeed." John muttered, before walking on until his feet carried him outside to the flagstone walkway that led to the arrival point for anyone who apparated to the beach-front Chateau. The point was acceptably distant, though had John been designing it, there would have been fewer decorations that could serve as cover for attackers. Gentle trees formed delicate woods that lathered the property with foliage. The sea brushed up against a beautiful beach where waves lapped at the shore. He had seen his charge sunning herself on a towel, and had turned and walked away. He didn't need _those _kinds of thoughts to distract him. He had a job, and he would do it, the best way he knew how. A slight smirk crossed his lips. No kind of training could get rid of those kinds of thoughts from a man's mind. As if acknowledging his own training, his mind betrayed him, flinging his thoughts back in time.

_"Get your fucking ass to the finish line oh-seven-six-two! I've seen eighty-year olds fuck faster!" The screaming commander had his face inches from the emaciated boy's gaunt cheeks. "If you don't finish in the next four minutes and twenty-six seconds, your pathetic fuckery will be rerunning the course instead of eating dinner!" A miserable mewl escaped the boy, and was met with a swung boot. The kick slammed into the child's ribs, bruising and cracking them as the force sent the kid spinning across the muddy grass. The advancing commander cocked his leg back. "Introduce yourself in French!" It took a fraction of a second for the boy to process the unexpected command, a fraction too long as he was kicked again. It took the sound of another rib breaking to realize the commander was serious. Quickly as he could, the youth gathered what little air his lungs could muster and replied, wheezing through the pain before another kick could come._

_ "Je m'appelle zero-sept-six-deux!" The cocked boot moved back to the ground. No kick came. Silent validation. It didn't last._

_ "Get the FUCK up you waste of oxygen, what are you waiting for? You have four minutes and fourteen seconds you rotting piece of shit! Go!" Recruit 0762 scrabbled to his feet and began a hideous scamper up a rocky incline, his ankle sprained, but the fear of the instructors a more pressing pain. As he pulled himself over a low boulder, he saw 0748 getting up from tripping to stand at attention before an instructor. Her blonde hair was matted with mud and leaves._

_ "Address me in Farsi!" He barked out. The girl frowned before stammering out an answer. The instructor slammed his fist into her gut, doubling her over, before grabbing her head and slamming his knee into her face. An audible crunch betrayed her broken nose._

_ "Am I fucking 'dear'? Do I fucking look like someone you'd call 'dear'? Get your ass to the finish line and have the right words when you get there! Go, bitch, GO!" The girl dug her fingers into the ground and pulled herself up to her knees. She didn't acknowledge 0762 when he caught up with her and they continued side-by-side. He didn't acknowledge her. They just hobbled, two children surviving. _

John snapped back to the present when he felt magic twisting around a point due north of himself. Spinning around, the boy took off sprinting for the front door of the chateau. He slid to a stop, feet slick on grass. He stood in front of the door, feet shoulder width apart, and hands clasped in front of him. His eyes locked onto the apparition point from behind silver sunglasses, and he watched as a man materialized into existence. The newcomer had light, sandy brown hair, and wore an intricate, hand-woven, white unicorn-hair vest over a gold button-up shirt. He wore a matching pair of gold slacks, and white leather riding boots that sported white lace cord fastenings. The man in white didn't stumble, and his apparition was nearly silent. He immediately stalked down the stone path with an inimitable swagger. When he drew closer to John, it was clear that the man was huge. Standing at 6'7'', he was built like a Viking, muscles bulging from the confines of his fitted suit. His eyes were a stark contrast to his clothes, pits of rich chocolate. He didn't stop moving as he called to John from nearly forty feet away.

"Boy, inform Monsieur Delacour that I need to speak with him at once." John didn't move. "Are you deaf? I said…"

"If you wish to meet Lord Delacour, you must give me your name so I may see if you are permitted entrance." The words served to stop the approaching man.

"Child, when your betters speak, you should obey!"

"I only obey those who pay me." The two-meter-tall giant of a man seemed about to lose his temper and raised a hand in anger, when he was interrupted by the unmistakable voice of Sebastien Delacour.

"Thank you Monsieur Constantine, I'm sure Lord Delaguède would be happy to speak to me outside." While the now named Lord Delaguède turned to see Sebastien approaching from the side of the house, John surveyed the gold clothed stranger. Now he knew the guest. Names had that sort of power. Lord Maximilien Delaguède had been nicknamed the Hammer, _Le Marteau_, for his brutality in the war against Grindlewald. His ability to overcharge his spells with so much raw magic was feared, and often simple stunners would blaze with enough power to level a small house. Once, during the war, he had found the man who had killed his wife fighting for Grindlewald. The blasting curse he had launched had not only blown his hated opponent into red mist and splinters of bone, but had also carved a furrow in the earth the size of a professional quidditch pitch.

"Lord Chairman Delacour, I'm pleased to have found you." Maximilien's voice had morphed into an emotionless, clipped tone. "It is in our best interests to insure that Beauxbaton's students are safe in their travels to England and Scotland for the moronic Tournament that is being reinstated. To that end, there will be a gathering of Chairmen from the various boards and branches in four days to finalize security plans, protocols, and whatever other shit and red tape the politicians want to discuss."

"And you came to tell me this in person?" Sebastien cocked his head. Maximilien sighed.

"I don't like you Lord Delacour, I don't. But this meeting was insisted on by Lord Mance Cherveaux. I'm sure you can put the pieces together." The blond giant looked down impetuously at the shorter Frenchman. Sebastien took a breath through clenched teeth.

"Four days?"

"Yes."

"Thank you Lord Delaguède, I will see you again then." With a nod, Maximilien turned heel, and strode off to the apparation point and spun, disappearing with only a slight snap of a disturbance. Sebastien exhaled slowly, releasing his newfound stress. Still staring off at where his visitor had left, he addressed the mercenary boy beside him.

"Mr. Constantine, Lord Mance Cherveaux is one of the few lords remaining alive that fought _with_ Grindelwald in the War. After his side had lost, he claimed he had been fighting only because of compulsion spells. The Courts ruled that excuse illogical and sentenced him to a trial. Mance chose a trial by combat over jury. He was scheduled to fight against the previous Chairman of Arcane Defenses. Though my predecessor was skilled, Lord Cherveaux is a former champion of the Dueling Circuit, and emerged victorious after a rather vicious Spanish spell ripped his opponent's heart out. More importantly, Mance has an unrivaled bigotry against anyone even slightly inhuman." John looked at his employer passively.

''He plans to attack your family when you are away at the conference?" Sebastien blinked at the intuitive answer.

"It is unlikely he himself will attack, but he will almost certainly send a team to kidnap my wife and daughters. The elections are next year and Mance has desired my position ever since killing its former possessor." John nodded.

"Do you know who will lead them?" Sebastien rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking. Then his eyes hardened.

"Non, it is not a question. He will choose his favorite killer, the Butcher of Bordeaux, Count Flavius Malfoy."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**Like my profile, Imma keep this simple...**

**This is my first published story. If you like, or even don't like this, leave a review. I'll read it.**

**If you have questions, PM me or ask them in a review, and I will leave a response in the bottom of the next chapter or PM you back (depending on the nature of the question).**

**Semper,**

** Vi**


	2. Silence

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived**_** by the Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer:**** I'm not a Brit, or French.**

**[Sorry for the delay, everything is explained in the post-script.]**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-II-

John Constantine spent the rest of the afternoon surveying the grounds of the Chateau, walking among the groves of trees, through glades of knee-high grass, and when his charge finally left the beach to go inside, across the dunes beside the cobalt waves. Behind silver lenses, he took notes. He saw the trails that the smaller animals wove through thickets, he saw the crushed grass where a large beast had lain, and he saw where tiny bubbles broke the gentle waves several dozen yards from where the tide lapped at the sand.

The land the Chateau was built upon had no natural caves that he could find, no massive trees to climb, but most importantly, the wards ended on one bank of a thin river that curved to form two sides of the grounds. With the ocean as a third side, and a heavily wooded bramble of shrubs and ash trees, the Chateau would be well defended from most non-magical means of transportation.

John took a second to consider all the ways that he would choose to infiltrate the Delacour's home, were that his mission. After compiling a not insignificant list, he then began planning for each one of those scenarios. While it was very unlikely that somebody could just happen upon the property, the massive defensive wards also having a string of runes that copied the 'notice-me-not' charm, he knew that anyone could paraglide or HALO jump through the wards without much difficulty. While falling at that speed, a mind would be so overwhelmed with the desire to pull the parachute cord before impact that the effects of the charm would be easily shrugged off.

More likely, however, was the possibility that someone could already know the general location, and arrive with either a Seer, a Sniffer, or another magic sensing creature and would thereby find the Chateau via its potent wards. John thought more about that possibility, and decided to add some rune-work of his own outside the perimeter of the wards.

His silent musing was interrupted by a brief buzzing in his head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a protean-charmed franc, and squeezed it once. The buzzing turned into a voice.

"Deposit has been confirmed. Operational funds have been assigned. See a Gringotts to complete financial preparations." John recognized the voice. His handler had been a former operative as well, and was renowned for both his cold efficiency, and, when warranted, his brutality. The voice turned into buzzing, and then then buzzing stopped. Silence.

_Alejandro paced back and forth in front of 0762. "Beirut." His voice was gruff, and showed his age. The response was level, measured, and emotionless._

"_Lebanon."_

"_Sanctuary?"_

"_Tenuous. Possible only through the Royal Garden Hotel."_

"_Address." _

"_The corner of Alfred Nobel and Emile Edde." _

"_Address."_

"_I don't remember." 0762 didn't _see_ the strike coming, but he knew it was the moment he acknowledged his failure. The blackjack slammed into his collar bone with the full force of the ex-Medellín assassin's considerable strength. He heard the crack, followed by a more quiet pop. 0762 kept his face devoid of pain. Alejandro stared him in the eyes, their faces only inches apart. A silent stand-off. Then, Alejandro nodded._

"_Johannesburg."_

"_South Africa."_

"_Sanctuary."_

"_None. The M1 becomes R101 and dead-ends in Pretoria, where we have several."_

"_The Dragon School."_

"_Established in 221 BC, located in Taibai, China. Maintained by The Dragon Family on behalf of its founder, Ying Zheng."_

"_Location."_

"_33.935 N, 107.550 E…approximately."_

"_Agents?"_

"_None. The one we had was forced to fake his death to bring us its location."_

"_Hogwarts."_

"_Established in 990 AD, located in Scotland. It has no specific coordinates due to an "Unplottable" ward."_

"_Agents?"_

"_One. A great-grandchilde of the Director."_

"_Good. Compose yourself." 0762 nodded, and took a second to pop his shoulder back into place. He rolled his head and neck to test the broken collarbone. A spiral fracture, not a buckle. He met his trainer's eyes._

_There was no warning when Alejandro lashed out, he moved like a viper. 0762 barely blocked the strike with his good arm, then countered with an attack of his own._

John came back to the present when he heard the voice repeating, "…copy. I say again, asset, do you copy."

"Goldflour, your message has been received, Royce out." John replied in his lilting brogue, and then placed the coin back into his pocket. He stopped, briefly running one finger along its smooth edge, before walking towards the ward-line to add those extra-defenses he had thought about. Save for the waves breaking, the birds chirping, and wind rustling the tall grass, there was silence once more.

* * *

"Fleur Isabelle Delacour, I have told you once, and I will tell you again. This. Last. Time. Your father and I have already agreed that you will have a bodyguard this year."

"Oui, maman, but I am turning 18 this year, even if you do force this bodyguard situation on me, I will be old enough—"

"I do not know what nonsense you read in your own time, but in the real world, there is not a magical age at which your parents must stop caring for you."

"But I can contact the ministry, cancel the contract in my name."

"Non. The contract is not through the ministry. And even if you were to somehow gain legal freedom, we would still have him protect you from the shadows."

"Maman, this is not necessary."

"Ah, mais oui, it is."

"Il sera visible comme une mouche dans un verre de lait."

"He will not be so visible, he is almost your age."

"How can he protect me if he is so young?"

"He is…_special_. Trust me, he will be better than I or your father at keeping you safe this year."

"A little boy who can keep me safer than mon pere et ma mere. I can't wait to see him."

* * *

John finished his last sextuplet of runes, and stood up, brushing the loose sand off of his slacks. He glanced around, taking in once more his surroundings, before he began his trek back through the trees and shrubbery towards the chateau. He looked down at his hands as he walked. Idly he _evanesce_d the dirt and grime, before repeating the inspection and cleaning on his slacks and shirt. He didn't need to check to see if he would trail grass clods, sand, or mud when he walked into the spotless stone hallways, the runes beneath the layers of calluses on the bottom of his bare-feet took care of that.

* * *

That evening, sitting at the dining room table, Sebastien Delacour couldn't help but smile at his younger daughter. While his eldest still hadn't come downstairs yet, unusual considering the sushi that her mother had prepared had always been one of her favorites, little Gabrielle was leaning halfway across the table to watch the newest addition to their household spin a chopstick between his fingers, enthralled by the movement. The ends of the chopstick burned and crackled with a gentle flame, and John Constantine spun and flipped the utensil like a miniature baton. With a flick of his wrist, the bodyguard sent the chopstick spinning in the air, arcing like a boomerang around Gabrielle's head. The girl giggled, her eyes aglow with joy as she followed its path back to his nimble fingers.

Sebastien watched as the young man's head cocked to the side, as if hearing something, before the chopsticks flames went out, and he quickly placed it back beside his plate. John stood up, a quiet, "Sorry." murmured to the pouting little blonde, and he bowed slightly to the gorgeous girl who was just now entering the room. Fleur wore a strapless lavender gown that hugged her full curves, a moonlight white choker, and her hair done in tresses that cascaded over one shoulder. She was, in a word, gorgeous. No, John realized, she wasn't gorgeous, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. His face however, stoic as always, betrayed not his emotions. He pulled a chair out for Fleur beside her sister. "Miss Delacour."

"Thank you, Monsieur…"

"Constantine, ma'am."

"Monsieur Constantine." Fleur took the seat with a beautiful laugh, unleashing a dazzling smile towards her new bodyguard. Sebastien narrowed his eyes ever-so slightly. He recognized the near-unnoticeable shift in his daughter, and then felt her allure as it washed over the room. The Minister of Arcane Defenses almost stood and yelled at his daughter, but he stopped himself. He knew that his Veela wife and youngest daughter were immune to the effects of the allure, and he knew that he was also one of the few men capable of throwing off the allure, but he realized he didn't know if John was. Instead of losing his temper, he leaned back in his chair and watched. And it was because of that decision, that he got to see the look of abject shock on his daughters face as John Constantine turned around, and walked away from her, around the table, and back to his seat across from the sisters. He got to see her jaw drop, her eyes bulge, and her laugh turn into a surprised choke.

"Fleur, no using your allure on guests, especially not at the table. And John, we don't wear sunglasses at the table." Apolline said, as she strode into the room, graceful as ever despite the huge platter of various fish held in her hands. Dozens of rolls of sushi, and a veritable rainbow of sashimi covered the tray. Sebastien smiled again, it was rare enough to see his daughter humbled so badly, but to see her look at her lap flushing and abashed at the scolding too…needless to say he would hold this moment in his armory of blackmail for many years to come. John, however, looked directly at Apolline.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I have a condition with my eyes. The glasses help." She stopped briefly, pausing mid-stride, before continuing to the table, and placing the platter down.

"Well in that case, you can keep them on."

"Thank you, ma'am." The silence that followed was not the heavy silence after someone is fired from their job. It was not the shuffling silence of two lovers quarrelling. It was the silence of a group of people watching the snow patter down outside while waiting for a kettle to boil water for their cocoa. And eventually, much like the fate of that tender silence, the kettle boiled. Fleur stood up, and slammed her hands on the table.

"Non, I will not have him as my guard! He may be able to resist my allure, but he is just a little boy. Monsieur John Constantine, I challenge you to a wizards duel!" Sebastien stood up.

"Fleur Isa—"

"Monsieur Delacour, while I appreciate your intervention, it is important for Miss Delacour to be able to challenge me if she does not think me deserving. If she indeed can easily defeat me, than I believe it would be understandable if we annul our contract and you would be paid back your full deposit plus an extra quarter-million for wasting your time. However, should I win, I believe Miss Delacour would not be remiss in accepting my services." The boy said from his position at the table, still seated and with his chopsticks still clutching a piece of sushi. Fleur bristled.

"I accept your terms. I will _not_ lose." She turned on her heel, and headed for the door through which she had entered. "I will change, then we will duel."

"Miss Delacour." She stopped, then turned, cocking her head.

"I will never duel when it comes to protect you. I will only fight. Therefore, I must inform you—" Fleur cut him off with a slice of her hand.

"Call it what you will. It makes no difference to me." Turning away to continue walking, she didn't hear her father's brief hiss of annoyance. She didn't see her bodyguard bow his head in deference. She did hear his voice once more drift after her.

"As you wish."

* * *

Sebastien, Apolline, and Gabrielle sat together on the plush cushions of a wicker bench outside the chateau. In front of them, on opposite sides of a gravel lane, were John Constantine, dressed in his usual attire, and their daughter, dressed in the light dueling outfit that she wore in all her school competitions. She was standing in the classic pose used by both circuit duelists, and fencers, feet perpendicular and the foot closest to John extended ever-so-slightly in the beginnings of a lunge. John, conversely, stood at attention, feet shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped in front of him, and his body facing Fleur. He stood unnaturally still.

Sebastien looked back and forth between the two youths, then spoke. "The terms have been set. The rules are clear. No spells may be cast that have the purpose of killing, or grievously injuring the other. The duel ends when one of you is unable or unwilling to continue. You may begin when you are ready."

Fleur, her wand in hand, spread her arms, and gave a mocking bow. In lowering her eyes, she made one mistake. Her only mistake. She didn't see John move with spectacular celerity, a wand seemingly materializing in his hand. She didn't see him fire a trio of spells within the space of a heartbeat. Instead she bowed, looking looked down at the gravel path with a smirk on her lips, confident. Then everything went black, and silence reigned.

* * *

**(This should be the longest post-script y'all will ever see in my works.)**

**N/B: \HALO stands for High Altitude Low Opening, and is a type of parachute jump.**

** \A Blackjack is a type of club, similar to those carried by police.**

** \**_**"Visible comme une mouche dans un verre de lait" **_**is a French colloquialism similar to 'stand out like a sore thumb.' Literally, 'as visible as a fly in a glass of milk.'**

** \N/B stands for **_**Nota Bene**_**, latin for 'know well'. This section serves to explain any details I think might confuse some readers without spoiling the plot. Therefore, you shouldn't have to look anything up after reading this section.**

* * *

**Authors Note: **

**Apologies for the delay, and thanks for the patience. My moronic boyfriend and co-writer refused to go to the hospital when he couldn't move due to abdominal pains, so I dragged him against his will. Turns out, I made the right choice because he had a very nasty case of appendicitis. The doctors said if we had arrived only a few hours later, it could have been life-threatening. I have spent the last few weeks worrying about him, nursing him back to health, and then whacking him with a pillow for making me worry. I'm happy to say he is better, and at this moment is looking over my shoulder and complaining about this Authors Note. As for the next chapter, in the words of CD Projekt Red, it will 'come when it's ready.'**

**[Boyfriend's Note: So, to translate her sass, hopefully just a few weeks, unless Vi wants to take a turn making an emergency hospital stop. And yes, for CDPR fans she is very happy with the name they chose for **_**Cyberpunk 2077**_**'s hero.]**

**Read, review, and share this story with your friends if you like it,**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	3. The Murder of Innocence

**[Thank you for your patience, and this is a long-ass chapter for your troubles.**

**This should not only continue the story, but also give a glimpse into how the Hogwarts world is different without Harry (and you might also hear from the Bad Guys).]**

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived **_**by the Crimson Lord**

_**The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel **_**by Michael Scott (Not from the Office)**

**Disclaimer:**** I'm not British, French, nor Irish.**

**[I'll talk more in the post-script for people who want to know more.]**

**(Unusual Warning: I don't believe in 'Trigger Warnings'. So this will be the first, last, and only warning you get. This fic is rated M, as in Mature. As in, there will be dark, violent, and sad things written in this story that are generally perceived to be inappropriate for children. If you are a kid and decide you still want to read this, go right ahead. I just want you to know what you're getting into. Maturity comes from experiencing both the bad and good aspects of our world. You can never hope to defeat something you never learned about. "An Evil or Injustice that is Unknown, is Immortal.")**

**Otherwise,**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-III-

Albus Dumbledore had known for quite some time that he was getting old. Though he still felt his magic coursing through his veins, and though (as an empath) he was still able to feel the emotions bubbling out of his excitable students, mornings were as rough for him as for most men in the many years after their prime. He woke to aching knees and a stiff back that he had to roll his shoulders to pop into motion. Albus even had to grunt his way into a sitting position from his bed in the morning, only to heave his way to his feet. However, he was not an Arch-warlock for nothing. By the time he had slid into his chosen robes, ruffled Fawkes' feathers, and let his eyes gleam into his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he could feel the magic he had mastered warming his old joints and bones, worrying away the strain and pain. For a wizard of his age, he was happy with his health.

And so it was that morning, as he wandered the halls of Hogwarts on his early rounds, he couldn't help but smile to himself and hum a toon as he strolled. It was as good a morning as any, and far better than he supposed it could be. Today he was expecting several letters to arrive. One from the Longbottoms and one from the Weasleys. One from Gringotts and one from Moody. One from the Ministry, and one…a rare frown began to form on his face. One from the International Confederation of Wizards. That, of all the letters, more so even than the report of his investments for the James and Lily Potter Foundation, was vital.

Albus Dumbledore decided, in that moment, that he would not worry… what was that Muggle saying? Ah, yes. He would not worry until the chicks had hatched. A smile once more grew on his face. It remained there through a meeting with Hagrid over special stables that needed to be built by midway through the first term, through scolding Peeves for harassing Mrs. Norris with Dungbombs in the shape of mice, and all the way through breakfast. Even as a slew of owls soared through the rafters and eaves, alighting in front of him, he still smiled. One by one, he read the letters.

Neville would be returning this year, despite the issues with the Dementors last year (they had been lucky that Pettigrew had been ferreted out of the castle before any harm had come to more students). Arthur Weasley had written him, informing him that young Ginevra was settling in well at her new school, and that she held no hard feelings for the professors of her former home. The patriarch of the Weasley clan had gone so far as to say that she would likely be visiting Hogwarts with her new school's delegation later that year, though how Arthur knew of the Tournament, Albus honestly didn't know.

Gringotts informed him, to his delight, that the various investments were turning a profit (albeit a small one) and that the proceeds would cycle back into the foundation for tuition assistance for Muggleborns. Moody's letter, too, brought good news. He was willing, though not happy, to be the Defense teacher. The letter from the Ministry was a simple reminder of the cut of funding to financial aid, a recurring theme, and also a notice that the classifications of various dangerous beasts had been amended. That one was interesting, and so Albus filed it away in his mind for further inspection. However, more pressing, was the single charcoal letter, emblazoned with the white-segmented eye of the ICW within its diamond-shaped outline. Albus contained his trepidation, and ignored the looks his fellow faculty were sending his way.

With a single tap of his wand on the intricate eye, the letter unfolded.

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,_

_Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock, Heir to the House of Dumbledore, and Headmaster of Hogwarts, _

_ In regards to your inquiry to the deployment of one of our Marshals to the British Isles, insofar as we understand the situation, the threat posed by one Lord Voldemort does not yet meet even the most minimal criteria sufficient to warrant the redeployment of any of the M Groups. Therefore, until such a day comes wherein the threat posed by the presumptive Dark Lord reaches a more critical level, we see not the need to interfere._

_ Signed,_

_ Patroclus Machiavelli_

_International Confederation of Wizards' Precept of War, Liaison to the Circle of Magi_

Albus' worry faded, and a wider grin broke out across his face. They were not going to deploy a Marshal. This was, without a doubt, the best news he had heard this summer. If the ICW chose to step in, any hope of redeeming the lost would be gone. He knew each one of the three Marshals, and most of their respective subordinates. They were killers, plain and simple. The old Headmaster had personally seen what the Marshalls were capable of. During The First World War, the ancient Wizards of Constantinople had desperately joined the ICW and begged for protection. The ICW answered their pleas, and sent Romulus Crowe to Turkey. Dumbledore remembered those bloody beaches, and he certainly remembered what had happened when the Lovecraftian Horror had arrived. Romulus Crowe, more than any other reason, was why Gallipoli had been such a massacre. Alone, without even his retinue of magicians, the Marshal had brought about the end of seventeen squads of hitwizards that had tried to aid the muggle forces in taking the beach. Had the Confederation sent that man to Britain…Albus forced himself away from the thought and his smile widened. But no, that had not happened. He still had the chance to save those caught by Voldemort's webs.

"Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked, speaking up for the rest of the curious teachers. "Did you receive good news?"

The gleam in his eyes was blinding when he turned to answer.

"The best news, Minerva, the best."

* * *

Fleur awoke gently, as if from a long slumber. She saw light streaming through open windows, and heard the birds chirping outside. It was morning, and she realized she was in her own bed. _Strange, s_he thought, _Wasn't I just starting a duel?_ With a soft yawn, she slid out of bed and into a pair of slippers, pulling her night gown tighter around her. Voices reached her through her door, and she set off in search of answers. She found her Father and John sitting in a reading room just down the hall from her own.

"—And of course we have Aramis Motierre…Ah, bon matin, Fleur. John and I were just talking politics." He gestured to a glass of orange juice and a few slices of buttered bread on a tray beside an empty chair. "You slept almost until lunch, please eat. You must be hungry." He then turned back to John. "You can see the problem with having one of Cherveaux's compatriots as Minister of Intelligence."

"I was under the impression that he was the Second Minister, and Sophie Thomas was still the First."

"Non, you would have been right, but just last month _la Rouge_ was recalled to the ICW and her position as acting director is no more. The word is that she was promoted."

"Excuzez-moi, Papa, but where is my wand? I last had it when I was about to duel…" Fleur stopped herself when her brain caught up with her mouth. Her eyes widened. Her father smiled.

"Oui, ma chérie. You lost, rather handily I might add." He stuck his hand out to her, and she saw her wand in his grasp. "What mistakes did you make last night?" Fleur flushed as she took her wand back, and recalled the events of the prior evening.

"I mistook fighting for dueling. One is a sport, the other is survival."

"Good, what else." Her father prodded.

"I…I let pride take a hold of me?"

"Pride slays even dragons." He quoted, a simile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And what else?" Fleur thought, but nothing came to mind. When she didn't answer, it was John who provided.

"You underestimated me. The Americans have a saying, assuming makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me', and while childish, it is accurate. Do not assume that you are better than someone just because of your age." Fleur looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. However, uncharacteristically, she only nodded her head. She then looked at her father.

"May I join your conversation?" Her father beamed.

"Of course, we were just talking about Cherveaux and his allies. I was noting the new threat that Lord Motierre provides to the present administration." Fleur nodded, and took a bite of the bread, then washed it down with a sip of juice.

"Oui, but I would think that Jacque Thibault is more sinister." Her father scratched one ear, thinking.

"I suppose you could be right." His voice was contemplative. John looked from the girl to Sebastien. He spoke, affirming what he believed to be true.

"You said in passing he is the most likely person to run on behalf the Oldbloods in the next election?"

"C'est vrai, he will most likely be backed by the likes of Chervaux and Motierre. With Louis-Gerrard Laurent finishing his second term, his Vice-Minister is likely to run for their party." Fleur scrunched her nose.

"Lord Martin? But, he is so quiet, does he have the charisma to win?" Sebastien Delacour chuckled.

"You should see him when he gets worked up. I think he could do it. Most of the party would follow him, and many of the other parties would join him later in the elections."

John listened as the two continued their conversation, struck by how eager Fleur seemed to impress her father with her knowledge and political acumen. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed. The slight shift in her eyes from her father to a point slightly past him, the way her fingertips whitened when she squeezed the glass in her hand as she waited for her father to respond to a point she had made, and way she leaned ever so slightly forward, as if hanging onto her father's words. John took note of these, and made a conclusion. Beneath his emotionless mask, he smiled. He knew someone else who did those same things.

He was brought back into the moment, as so often was starting to happen, by the silence of the others. He looked up, and saw the two looking back at him.

"Apologies, sir, miss. I grew distant." Sebastien waved it off.

"Fleur was just telling me that a couple of her friends were planning on going shopping to Saint-Germain-des-Prés this afternoon. I thought it would be a good chance for you to get the feel for the place. Beauxbatons will often organize trips for many students to go shopping there." John regarded the two. He nodded once.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

Saint-Germain-des-Prés was, for muggles even, a district of Paris teeming with fancy shops and small but pricey restaurants. However, for magicals, the district named after the most famous French Magician beside the Flamels was a spot for both business, and pleasure. In this light, when John Constantine walked towards a statue easily missed beside the looming church for which the district was named (all the while ignoring the inane conversations between Fleur and her two friends, Salomé and Jezebel) he mentally smirked. Though muggles assume the statue is of Diderot, the famous philosopher, John knew otherwise. After all, why would any church have a statue erected outside their doors of a man famous to have said, "_Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest"_? No, the statue was not of Diderot, but of Saint Germain himself, former apprentice to Nicholas and Prenelle Flamel. The stone base had been changed to hide the entrance to the magical section of Paris, and when the correct pass phrase was spoken, a notice-me-not charm activated, and the side of the statue became ethereal to allow visitors to descend into the realm below.

John wasn't surprised when, after reaching the bottom of the stairs and passing through a magical field that had until then blockaded the sound from below, both Fleur and the girls attempted to cast subtle glances to gauge his reaction. While Fleur's two friends seemed surprised to see the non-reaction across his face, Fleur was not, and gave a small sigh. "Welcome to the—"

"To the true Catacombs of Paris." The new voice rang with authority, and boisterous joy. The girls whipped their heads to take in the speaker and, for the first time in recent memory, John found himself surprised. Fleur was smiling. She turned back to her bodyguard.

"John, this is Maurice. He is one of my classmates. Most days, he is also a friend." Maurice raised one hand to his heart, and the other to his open mouth. He wore an affronted look of shock, but his hazel eyes gleamed with mirth.

"Only _most_ days?! How have I earned such revulsion, my dear flower of the court?" She shot him a half-hearted glare.

"For jokes like that." She gestured to John. "Maurice, this is John. He is a distant cousin of mine." Maurice, still grinning, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in thought. Any response was cut off by Salomé.

"He is from Ireland, Maurice. The College Cú Chulainn. Rumor has it that he is a champion duelist and that Madame Maxime wanted to snatch him up for an interschool competition this year." John reevaluated the strawberry-blonde. Salomé Bardot was tall for her age, very tall. An inch shy of six feet, and with hair done in a simple but tight braid over one shoulder, her athletic form would have made her a surefire pick on any sports team. With his new attention, John noticed the piercing intelligence behind her grey eyes, a hard thing to miss now that she was staring at him. _A dangerous girl, physically and mentally if that off-the-cuff lie is anything to go by. _Maurice piped up.

"A tournament between magical schools would be fantastic, non? So long as it is not the Tri-Wizard back again." A laugh sounded between the French kids, Fleur's the only one with any semblance of hesitation. After all, only she and John knew how true that joke had been. Jezebel, finally regaining her breath from the fit of laughter, stood to her comparatively modest height, and jostled Maurice.

"Mon Deu, I almost forgot. Fleur, Salomé, John and I are going shopping! If you just got here, or if you aren't too very busy, would you like to join us? We would absolutely love your input." She gave a crooked smirk at John. "I believe he may be happier with this trip if he will no longer be the only garcon, pas vrai?" Maurice didn't wait for John to reply.

"I would love to, but I'm afraid I was on my way out. Felix and I already made plans to visit Rome before classes begin, and you know how he gets if we do not stick to his….strict itinerary." The girls nodded sagely, a wordless agreement passing between the three and Maurice. The brown-haired boy sauntered over to John, and put one hand on the bodyguard's shoulder. John stiffened. "I'm _so _glad I got to meet you John. You must tell me more of Ireland once school begins again." His smile was dazzling, and then he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. John blinked. He turned from watching the flamboyant boy disappear up the stairs to street level, and saw all three girls grinning.

"He seemed nice." Fleur and Jezebel laughed, while Salomé snorted. She shook her head, then turned to her two friends.

"Where should we start? Marie's? Andre Montcelli's?" Jezebel frowned.

"Marie's? What is Marie's?"

"The little family boutique wedged between Cassano's and Apothacary 13." At Jezebel's blank look, Salomé continued, "The store front with the rows of colored chocolates?" Jezebel's eyes widened in realization, and some horror.

"Salomé! You buy chocolates from them?! Mon dieu, do you know what that does for one's health, much less the complexion?! C'est incroyable! Why, I was just flooing Lucretia last night, and she said that she had heard it from Thierry that his sister had gotten…" Fleur smiled and shook her head gently as her friend began a rant on the various gossip flooding the social circles. Her eyes met her bodyguards, and she shrugged.

"John, did you have anywhere you wanted to stop?" He nodded.

"I need to visit Gringotts," Fleur, blinked, then her eyes flicked up and left, thinking.

"Oui, c'est possible. I wanted to talk to them about future employment, so I can tag along." She guessed he would question that, so she added, "So you don't have to worry about leaving my side." Smirking, she scanned his expressionless face for any crack, but found none, frowning to herself. Then, turning on her heel, she strode past Jezebel, who was still talking. John followed.

"—ma tante, aussi, said she saw a significant increase in outbreaks of…Fleur? John? Where are you going? No one tells me anything, I swear! Do people think me someone they can just ignore when decisions are being made? Fleur!" She scampered off to catch up to the two, hoping to reach them before they got lost in the crowds. Behind her, Salomé shook her head wryly.

"Incapable of shutting up perhaps…" Her voice was too quiet for her demonstrative friend to hear, and she too followed the others. She focused her gaze on John though. She thought back to what her older brother had taught her when he was able to gain leave from his job. _Watch the way they move, where they bend, and where they don't._ She considered this as the group walked to Gringotts. He kept his knees slightly bent at all times, but his back remained straight. He never rested on his heels. He was ready to spring, and alert to any need to.

_Watch how they interact with others. Do they focus entirely on the person? Do they face the person they are speaking with? Or is one of their feet facing away? _Salomé watched him as he spoke with a Goblin within the bank. Saw as his head inclined, and she was surprised to hear him speaking deferentially to the creature. She looked at his stance. Relaxed, but ready still. One foot, his left, was slightly angled away from the interaction. He was ready to move.

_Most important, do they carry weapons? If so, where? _He wasn't wearing a robe, yet she didn't see his wand either in a pocket, nor a holster on his leg or lower back. His turtleneck had long sleeves, so she guessed he had a forearm holster, but there was no bulge there, so the model was slim, and therefore expensive. She looked then to his boots, to see if he wore tall ones that could conceal a knife. She blinked. He was barefoot. Across flagstones, concrete, bricks, puddles, and filthy roads the four of them had walked, and not once had she seen him sidestep anything or divert from a direct course. Salomé was having trouble comprehending that simple series of facts, when John seemed to finish his business and turned around. As Fleur stepped forward and began speaking with the teller, his silver-sunglass covered eyes reached hers, making her blush and look away. Face burning, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear and berated herself for being caught. Faintly, she heard Jezebel's voice slip through her broken concentration.

"—and that goes without saying. I mean, with those dreamy green eyes, Yves could have… Salomé? Tu vas ? Are you getting hot? Your face is all red! I told you that you should not wear jeans on a day like today, but no one ever listens to my advice, I swear!"

* * *

The quartet returned to Chateau Delacour eleven bags heavier than when they had left, but due to quick shrinking charms on all but one of the shopping bags (Jezebel had insisted that shrinking anything by the robes designer Esmé would be a crime, so that particular bag was left unshrunk), they were not encumbered as they could have been. Predictably, Jezebel was still talking, but only to John, who gave no interrupting feedback, which suited the chatterbox just fine. Fleur, separate from the one-sided conversation about the perils of Quidditch, spoke to Salomé.

"I need your honest opinion. What do you think of John?" Salomé looked up to meet Fleur's eyes, then looked away. A small smirk formed on her face.

"Well, I'd say that you didn't pick a bad one to start crushing on…unless Filipe counts, then not bad for a second go." Fleur felt her face begin to burn, and she shoved her taller friend.

"Non, that is not what I meant and you know it!"

"Oui, oui. But you must admit, you set yourself up for that one."

"Just answer the question!" Fleur whispered in frustration, desperately fighting down the blush. Salomé smile grew wider, then she grew serious.

"He moves like a panther at the zoo, relaxed, but yet confident. How would you say it?" The grey-eyed girl wrinkled her nose. "He is…assured. That is the word." There was a brief silence, then Fleur broke it so quietly that her words were almost lost in the sea breeze.

"He beat me in a duel." Salomé blinked.

"He beat you? Perhaps I was not far off in my lie…it must have been a great match, non?" Fleur shook her head, a minute gesture of sadness.

"I was being cocky. He had warned me that he would fight, not duel. I broke eye-contact to bow, and never had the chance to look back up." Salomé's eyes widened, but her surprise was not so much that she didn't catch the subtle point. _He had said he would fight, not duel._ An obvious obliterating point of her fib to Maurice. She filed away the piece to the puzzle that was the mysterious youth.

"He must be fast then."

"Very."

"So it is likely his assuredness is backed with ability?"

"Without a doubt." The girls walked several more steps. They were approaching the front door of the chateau. Salomé unconsciously stepped a half pace closer to her friend.

"He is not your cousin, is he?" Fleur opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the doors opening in front of them, and her father striding out. The girls blinked. Dressed in his spotless robes and suit, and with a dark intensity in his eyes, Sebastien Delacour looked ready for war. Behind the duo, Jezebel miraculously stopped mid-sentence. Sebastien spoke, with soft intensity, and unmistakable command.

"Fleur, my meeting has been moved up. I need to go now, and while I don't know if you had plans to stay the night with one of your friends, I am asking you to stay here tonight. I could be gone a while." Jezebel piped up.

"I was going to invite them, but we could stay here instead…um, if that is alright with you Mr. Delacour." Sebastien cocked his head at that, and almost seemed ready to apologize and refute, but he stopped. With a smile, he responded instead with good humor.

"I see no problem with that, so long as you girls don't torture John in my absence and my house is still standing come morning!" Caught in the universal joy of a sleepover, none of the girls made the connection between John's small nod, and Sebastien's change of heart. When the girls made to go inside, Sebastien held John back. After a few seconds to make sure they were out of earshot, he turned to the boy in silver sunglasses. "You understand that this change of schedule means the attack will likely happen tonight?"

"Yes sir."

"You understand that I don't have time now to divert some of my department's resources to help defend like we originally planned?"

"Yes sir."

"And you are certain you can promise their safety?"

"My life is forfeit should I fail, is it not? Either I am killed by you in a rage for failing, or I die ensuring their safety. The logical choice is to fight with all that I have so they can live. That would, logically, be my best hope of surviving."

"Logically?"

"Of course, sir."

"And what is the illogical choice?"

"Choosing to attack those I defend." Sebastien laughed, and when his chuckles finally subsided the boy finished. "Sir, either you will return to find me with the ladies, all of us alive, or you will return to find the ladies alive, and me dead." Sebastien cocked his head, still smiling.

"A Spartan and his shield, non?" This time it was John's turn to smile. A wide, genuine grin that changed the entire shape of face and seemed to lighten the darkening sky.

"Yes sir."

* * *

Fleur was not expecting to be awoken at three in the morning, and quickly made her irritability known through a rather proficient and diverse battery of swears not fit for a lady to say. However, even more unexpected was the failure of her vocal cords to produce an iota of noise. John's explanation, however, was quick.

"I silenced you; you're father informed me you are less than pleased with waking early." She glared daggers at him, but he ignored her, and continued. "The chateau is under attack." That got her mouth to finally stop moving, and her confused and alarmed eyes widened. John kept speaking. "I need you to stay here and watch your sister. I stunned both her and Jezebel because I didn't think they would handle the pressure as well as you." Fleur looked over to Jezebel who was asleep on the bed she had transfigured the previous evening, and saw her sister on a conjured cot. She looked over to John, and pointed to her own mouth. He unsilenced her.

"What of Salomé?" John jerked one thumb over her shoulder, and Fleur followed the gesture to see her friend standing by the door, eyes bleary, but a satisfied half-smirk on her face as she waved her wand, slowly but methodically braiding her hair into a tight braid that balled itself into a low bun.

"She woke up when I entered the room, so she already got the run down." Fleur looked once more at her friend, more critically this time.

"What is she going to be doing?" John shrugged.

"She can stay here, or try and help defend. I shouldn't need the help, but she's not the person I'm being paid to protect, so she has more leeway than you do." Fleur opened her mouth to lose her temper, but then came to a realization.

"Wait, we are under attack?! Who is attacking? Where are they? Why—" John silenced her with a flick of his wand.

"You don't need to worry about that, just stay here and protect your sister. And Jezebel. I'll take care of the attackers." As he began to walk away, he cancelled the silence around Fleur. She responded immediately.

"By yourself?" His response was equally quick.

"It's my job. I don't think I have to say this, but just in case…if this door begins to open, pour as many spells as you can into whoever comes through. Don't take chances, your sister is counting on you. Fire first, ask later."

"What if you are the first to come through?"

"I'll block."

Gerrard Montblanc was, of all the members of the Butcher of Bordeaux's team of killers, the most in tune with the muggle world. A large portion of his family's wealth came from their nominal luxury brand, and he had several cousins that had served in the French Foreign Legion, so compared with his teammate Vincent Homard's claim at understanding 'the other world' after an _imperio_-enforced orgy with four muggle girls, he felt very well versed in all things muggle. So when Vincent fell into an until-then invisible pit in the sand after crossing a little creek into the Delacour lands, he quickly recognized that things were not as they should be. This was supposed to be an easy mission. Sneak through the wards with the help of a cursebreaker, kidnap an Apolline Delacour and her two daughters (all three of them Veela) and then after making it back to base, the Butcher and his six men had full permission to fuck two of said women until the men couldn't rise to the occasion anymore. Easy and fun. So, as Gerrard looked down into the pit and saw Vincent pierced at least twelve times by buried stakes, he had to wonder. Why were there Vietnamese punji pits at a chateau in southern France?

John heard the footsteps, quiet though they were, as Salomé scampered to catch up with him. As he walked, his wand flicked from side to side, but instead of muttering the words to spells, he called softly over his shoulder. "Can I help you Mademoiselle Bardot?" She caught up, her face slightly flushed in warmth from the brief jog. She wasn't, however, breathing more heavily than normal, he noted with silent approval.

"I want to help."

"That's nice."

"I'm serious."

"As am I." He passed an intersection of corridors, and stooped to draw a small pair of runes on the floor right by the corner. He stood and looked at a marble statue of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, and made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. He turned to face her. "What experience do you have with killing?" She blinked.

"N-n-not killing, really. I mean, I've never had too, but I could if I needed to." John looked unimpressed.

"There are men here, who have come to kidnap your friend, her sister, and mother. They will likely ransom your friend, and claim they killed Gabrielle and Mrs. Delacour."

"Claim?"

"Yes, because in truth they will rape them. They won't care that Gabrielle is underage, and will probably use that to get Apolline to give herself willingly to try to spare Gabrielle." He saw that his blunt words were hitting hard, but he didn't let up. "If they find you and Jezebel here, they will happily add the two of you into circulation in their gang rape. A short and loud brunette and a leggy, athletic blonde? Yeah, doubt they will pass that opportunity up." He stopped finally when he saw a single tear roll down the girl's cheek. But, to his surprise, and for the second time that morning, his approval, her eyes held steely determination. She stared him down, doing her best to show her conviction.

"Then we will have to kill them first." He narrowed his eyes. His response was quiet, but intense.

"What happens if I fail? They kill me, then they kill you, or worse, capture you?" Instead of backing up, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Their eyes were locked, his cold behind silver curtains, and hers, grey storm clouds brimming with energy.

"Better I die or be captured than Gabrielle, Fleur, or Jez." He looked at her, and saw her passion, and the truth of her words. Then he nodded, and turned away once more, speaking into the air in front of him loudly enough for her to hear.

"I will draw them in, while you pick off stragglers. Remember, they will not take it easy on you, they are rabid dogs. Put them down."

Flavius Malfoy, Butcher of Bordeaux, feared killer across magical France, was glad that Vincent had found a trap so quickly. Though it had cost the man his life, the party moved much more carefully thereafter, and thereby missed many more traps that they might have otherwise stumbled into en mass. They had avoided a larger pit with a floor covered from corner to corner with runes that their curse breaker had claimed he had never seen the like of, and a trip wire that swung a comb of spikes at groin-height. However, though magic had healed his leg, one of their number still limped after stepping into an honest-to-god, fifteenth-century bear trap. The man's leg should have been absolutely fine, but clearly there was foul magic at play.

Flavius was beginning to dislike this mission. But, being a true professional, he wouldn't let his men see his growing frustration. He had already decided that he would instead vent his frustrations on little Gabrielle. A harsh smile began growing on his face. One that stopped when the front door opened to the chateau sixty feet in front of them and a barrage of spellfire shot out, turning the early morning darkness into a prismatic light show.

"COVER!" He yelled, throwing himself behind a nearby planter. With his back to the newest threat, he watched as one of his remaining six men went down, the front of his robs drenched in blood, wet fabric clinging to the now apparent crater in his chest. A brutally well aimed battering-curse, Count Malfoy realized, and reassessed the difficulty of this mission again. None of them had expected the women to be ready for the raid, much less willing to throw roman-era siege spells. Though well composed for the havoc of the sudden counter-assault, Flavius missed one detail. The battering-curse, _caio_, had been used by wizards hidden amongst the testudos of Rome's legendary legions. Safe beneath the shield wall and roof, the roman spell-casters had moved slowly closer and closer to the gates of whatever fortification they were assailing. Once they were within twenty or thirty feet, they would cast the spell at where they thought the drop-bars of the gates were, shattering wood and bending metal. Never in the long age of roman conquest, had it been recorded to have any lethal force at the distance Flavius had just witnessed.

Salomé watched as the first salvo of spellfire she and John launched battered the area around the small attacking force. She saw one of the men go down with a deep crunch sound that made it all the way back to her ears, but was unable to see the actual effect of the shot. After a quick breath, she made to cast more spells, but John pulled her to the side, and out of the open doorway. She looked at him, the question obvious in her eyes. He spoke quickly, but calmly, and in short sentences so her adrenaline filled brain would comprehend.

"Go to the side entrance by the gravel dueling lane. Go outside and crouch behind the patio furniture. They will send one or two men that way, and they won't think anyone would hide there. Any sane defender would hide inside the chateau, not outside. When they pass you, take one or two out from behind. If you only get one, run to the water." He took in her sneakers, jeans, and light jacket over a t-shirt. Nothing heavy or bulky. "You're better dressed for a swim then they are."

"What if they circle the house clock-wise instead of counter-clockwise to the dueling lane?" She asked, surprising him yet again. He made a mental note that he would stop underestimating this girl. He leaned out from cover and sent another barrage of color towards the attackers, then ducked back beside her as a few return spells splashed across the stonework beside the door.

"They won't. They are all right handed, and will not want their casting hands to have limited movement from proximity to a wall." He took a quick breath. "That, and frustrated attackers will take the quick ninety-degree quarter-circle as a path over the three times as long two-hundred and seventy degree path." He threw the redundant numbers out to see if she could process them in the heat of the moment, with spells still impacting the outer wall of the chateau. She could.

"How do you know they are all right handed?"

"I saw most of them when I just checked. But also all the misses hit our side of the doorframe. Any southpaw's would have had a slightly better angle to hit us around the inside of the door, their shots would have overcompensated left, but would have still made it through the door way. No spells did, thus all are right-handed." Salomé blinked rapidly as she tried to comprehend his explanation as quickly as he gave it. She gave up.

"When I make it to the water, what next?" She asked, backtracking.

"During my first tour of the grounds, I saw bubbles rising a few dozen meters off shore. We are on the Mediterranean Sea, so its likely gillyweed. Wait till he thinks you've drowned or swam off, then rise out of the water and kill him from behind."

Flavius and two of his men made it to the front door of Chateau Delacour by taking turns providing covering fire so that the other two could make it closer and closer. It had been Gerrard's idea, but he was going with the wounded Marc to the entrance beside the dueling lane. As all purebloods knew, having a heavily warded door beside a location where magic was cast both frequently in large amounts was a poor idea. The residue of such a sheer volume of spells caused havoc and interference with a ward's ability to recognize and respond to various magical input. Instead of moving the dueling lane farther from the house, the Delacour family had elected to keep it close, likely wishing for the weather charms from the house to also service the gravel path. Unfortunately for them, that meant that the door there would have the weakest charms of any entrance to this chateau.

Flavius had lost his composure by now, and was shouting orders to his men. He realized his mistake too late. With his shouting, he had revealed his proximity to the door, and his intentions. He threw himself to the side, wand up and forming a shield. In his efforts to land in the least painful way possible, he didn't see the barefooted boy step out from cover, and dispatch his men with a pair of rose curses before fading back into the chateau. When he rolled to his feet, shield up and ready, however, he did see his two companions. Both were dead. Their faces were now unrecognizable, skin bubbling and then bursting, puffs of steam rising from the wounds. The smell of burnt flesh and meat filled the air.

"Flavius." The voice came from within the door, and sounded like a far-away echo. A male voice. He growled, and entered the building, wand at the ready. "Flavius." Again the voice came, and he began following the single word. The simple challenge. The archaic instinct. He reached an intersection of two hallways after the eighth call of his name. He took a breath, and turned the corner. His wand lowered without his thinking, and his feet carried him a few more steps. There was a boy, waiting barefoot forty feet down the corridor. His eyes were hidden behind silver reflective sunglasses, and his hands were behind his back. His head was cocked slightly, as if measuring the Count. A mere boy. Flavius laughed.

Salomé watched as the first man rounded the corner of the Chateau. She watched as he cautiously made his way towards the door through which she had so recently exited. Very cautiously. He was limping. She waited. After an agonizing minute of the man shuffling, no one else had followed. Her heart hammered in her chest. Still no one else rounded the corner of the house. The limping man slowly reached the door, and began casting a series of spells at it. She glanced at the corner of the house. The limping man was alone. Standing up from behind her hiding spot, she raised her wand, arm shaking, and took a few steps closer to the man.

"_Stupefy_." She heard the spell too late, but she was still beginning to execute a dive to try and avoid the red jet of light when it hit her and sent her sprawling on the patio.

Gerrard had gone left, all the way around the house instead of going right with Marc. His logic was simple. This whole operation had been nothing but a pile of shit since they had crossed that little river. From the punji pits to the traps to the ambush by the front door, he was tired of getting fucked over, so when he told Marc to take the short route, he correctly calculated that, they would arrive close to the same time. With his limp, Marc still beat his ally to the side door, but not by much. In fact, it was that slight delay that caused Gerrard to see the strawberry-blonde girl stand up and take aim at Marc. He took a second to admire the view from behind her, then licked his lips and stunned her. Marc jumped when he heard the spell cast and impact a body near him.

"_Merde_. Gerrard, did you have to let her get that close?" He then took a second look at her. "She's not a Delacour, what should we do? Kill her."

"_Putain non!_ This mission has caused the death of too many of us, and even when Flavius quells the little rebellion inside, he will be furious, we might not get any of the women intact for ourselves." Marc reassessed the Stunned girl.

"So you're thinking—"

"Oui, I'm taking a piece of this before it's too late." As Gerrard spoke, he began by throwing the girls wand behind him, and then undoing the button and zipper on the girl's jeans and working them down her legs. He licked his lips at what lay beneath. Marc pulled the light jacket off of her, than her shirt, but stopped after that.

"What the fuck?" He said, confused. Gerrard looked over.

"It's a 'sports bra', muggle thing. Here, I'll stretch it, you cut it." He put one hand on the blonde's back, and pulled with his other on the muggle material. Marc raised his wand, and uttered excitedly, "_Diffindo_!"

Salomé awoke when one of the two men was pulling her shirt off. Somewhere, despite all of the panic and fear that was coursing through her body and forcing adrenaline into every fiber of her being, her brother's words came to her, 'Freak out after you've survived. In training, they were allowed to break any one of our bones they wanted. My file had the report from the accident, so when I realized they were going for my knee, I almost gave up and quit. Instead, I focused on the goal. Survive. You can be certain I lost my shit and got hammered when I got back from Graduation, but not until then." She heard their short conversation in her mind, and some bit of his life that he had drilled into her took command, and she kept her breathing steady. Then, when she heard the spell spoken, she forced her pinned body into a roll towards the cripple.

He reacted naturally, trying to move back out of the way, straightening from his crouch and half-hopping away from his now mobile captive. It was in his hop, that his spell rose higher than intended, and lost its previously controlled size. Feeling the grip on her bra slacken, Salomé continued the movement, spinning on her hip, and lashing one leg towards the cripple. She felt it connect with his bad leg, incidentally on his knee, and both felt and saw his knee collapse the wrong way, a hideous crack accompanied by the crunch of bone on bone. He immediately fell down, and began howling. Her blood pounded in her ears, and she rolled like she was on fire, up his legs. This served to slam her full weight against his broken knee, bringing a sharper wail, and giving her the momentum to bring her elbow up and over into a downward swing like a headsman executing a deserter. Finishing the picture, her elbow slammed the cripple in his throat, turning his screams into a gurgle as he reflexively tried to suck in the lost oxygen, and instead swallowed his tongue.

Salomé grabbed his wand where he had dropped it to clutch at his mouth and throat, and shot to her feet. In a blink, she launched a silent _depulso_, and the choking man's head burst apart, leaving a star-shaped splatter on the patio. Breathing heavily, chest heaving and nose flaring, she felt the adrenaline begin to fade, and the soreness and emotion begin to flood back into her body. Then she remembered the man who had stunned her, and the adrenaline came back in full force, erasing the pain as she threw herself to the side, spinning at the same time to raise the wand at the next threat. Her instincts were unneeded. He was dead.

Gerrard Montblanc had been licking his lips when his captive had shocked him by moving. He had opened his mouth to shout, when an errant cutting curse slotted perfectly between his parted lips, passing cleanly through the base of his skull and severing his spine. He lay with his mouth open, drooling blood like a red spring.

Salomé fell to her knees, body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane trying desperately to hold onto its branch. Her lip began trembling, and she fell to her side, curling up and cradling the stolen wand. Tears streamed down her face as her body shuddered from silent sobs.

* * *

The spell was fired so quickly, only the combination of his wand already being half-elevated and an instinctive shield saved the Count Malfoy from death. As is, he didn't have time to notice anything more than the orange beam deflecting off and incinerating a potted plant into ash before the barefoot boy in front of him launched a salvo of spellfire, dull wand dancing in the dawn light that cascaded through open windows. Flavius dove to the side, nearly smacking his head on a marble statue of some historical legend to avoid the barrage. Instincts told him to move again, and he rolled backwards to the junction of his hallway with another as the statue transformed into a lioness. The huge cat flung herself at the blonde Count, but he managed to grunt,_ pulsus decimati,_ anda black curse banished chunks of her back at the child who would dare oppose him. Flavius didn't like this fight one bit. He had only had time to cast twice and already he was on the defensive.

Knowing he had briefly obscured the boy's vision, the Butcher of Bordeaux launched his own salvo of curses, hissing out his spells, followed behind by an ice blue jet of light. Fully expecting success, he could only gape as the boy raised his left hand and made a fist. The stone floor erupted upwards in a huge protrusion of rock. The stone wall crumbled under the force of the attack, but did its job, blocking every single spell. All except the lone blue bolt. Flavius watched stunned as the stranger in silver glasses caught the spell on the tip of his grey wand, and flicked it back at him. Knowing what would happen should he be hit, he threw himself back into the perpendicular corridor, narrowly avoiding an icy death. Count Malfoy leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. _Who the hell was this boy?_ His musing was interrupted when three red spheres of light soared by, turning mid-air around the corner to slam into his defenseless side. Cursing loudly, Flavius was blasted through several other potted plants and down the hallway. His vision swam as he tried to pull himself to his feet.

A hand grabbed him, spun him, and pinned him to the wall by the collar of his robes. The blonde haired Count looked into the face of the boy who had beat him. It was at that moment he realized several things. First, this boy was very fit, clothes tight over a muscled frame. Second, the boy was in his mid-teens, but his face lacked the soft edges that marked anyone of that age. Finally, he realized that this boy had never once spoken during the fight, all his spells had been silently cast. With a shaking hand, Flavius reached up and pulled the silver glasses off of his foe. The eyes that stared back were as pale as death, enrapturing, and lacking any innocence. No pity could be found in the emotionless stare. The piercing orbs locked on his own. The boy spoke.

"To whom shall I send your wand?" Flavius coughed and hacked out a painful response, blood from internal wounds threating to escape with his words.

"My son…Darian…" The boy nodded, and pressed the point of his wand against the would-be kidnapper's gut. 'May…may…may I know your name?" Flavius asked, his final words a choked gasp.

"No."

Outside, as waves slid over sandy shores, gulls cried to the rising sun. Trees bent slightly in a light breeze. Squirrels danced amongst the quiet branches. The air was crisp, perfect. Inside the chateau, a muffled thump gently sounded in the hallway. John let go of the blonde Count. Count Malfoy slid to the floor, much as the waves slid over the sandy shore. He bent slightly, much as the trees outside bent in a gentle breeze. His heart was quiet, much like the branches were quiet in the perfect, crisp air.

* * *

"My Lord, news from your spy in the ICW." Antonin Dolohov knelt, head bowed and holding a letter up for his master to grab, if it was his will. It was. A strong hand took the folded parchment and smoothed it out to read. Much like his bitter rival, he smiled.

"So Crowe is being kept in his cage. Splendid. With The Hungarian still in Spain, and our dear spy still in South Africa, we may proceed as planned." The man sent the letter floating into the fireplace behind his chair with a casual twitch of his fingers. The flickering firelight outlined his chair in orange, backlit in the dark room. His face, cast into shadows, held eyes that somehow seemed to glow in the dancing darkness, dying coals in ashen embers.

The hand that had levitated the letter moved up to stroke his stubble. There was silence for almost a minute, then, at last, Tom Marvolo Riddle spoke again.

"Antonin, send Pettigrew to Bellatrix. He hasn't yet been properly punished for his failures this spring. Once you have done that, return to me with Crouch and Miss Black."

"At once, my Lord." Antonin turned, and took his leave. The Lord called Voldemort turned to a shadow that lingered in one corner of the room.

"Amy, I have heard that Lucius seems to have delegated the mission I gave him to his cousin. Please ensure that Lord Malfoy understands the gravity of my displeasure. Then send his son to me. It is time we complete the boy's preparations for this year."

"Yes, my Lord."

* * *

**N/B: \**_**La Rouge**_** is French for 'the red', referring to Sophie Thomas' hair and history (Not really a Nota Bene, but I figured it would confuse some people.)**

**\I have nothing against Montblanc, the company. Just smelled the cologne (Legend) on my boyfriend while writing and used the name. (10/10 Would Recommend)**

**\**_**Baise ça **_**is my translation of 'fuck that' from English to French. I couldn't officially confirm its veracity (i.e. Google Translate agrees but my French contact is annoyingly out of contact. (I'm a hypocrite, I know.)), but I rolled with it.**

**\**_**Pulsus decimati:**_** I used my limited Latin to create a spell. Translates (not really) as 'decemate and repel'.**

* * *

**Authors Note: **

**So here is a **_**twenty-eight page**_** long 'thank you' for your patience and the many reviews (that's twenty-eight pages before I added the header and footer). I tried to make it twenty-five pages for twenty-five reviews at time of writing, but I had too much fun with Jezebel. [B/N: Translation: Vi had fun releasing her inner gossip.]**

**I wish I could say that the boyfriend got hurt again and that is why this took so long to update [B/N: HEY!], but it's really because I had lots of fun during the summer and kept procrastinating on writing. However, I understand that it was a dick move to make y'all wait that long, so it won't happen again.**

** I did put a lot of effort into this when I was actually writing, so please read, review, and share it with others if you like it. Y'all are wonderful.**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	4. The Gravity of the Situation

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived **_**by the Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer:**** I'm not British, French, Irish, or Polish [B/N: But I am!].**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-IV-

Lord Sebastien Delacour apparated to his chateau with a fairly audible bang, followed by the subtler pops of Maximilien Delaguède and Timofey Pierre. Compared to most men, Timofey would have been considered huge, but in the wake of Lord Delaguède, the Commandant of Arcane Defenses seemed a hound beside a mountain. The trio rushed along the flagstone and grass path towards the huge house, none more anxious than the father that feared for his children. His path was blocked a few dozen meters further, however, by a boy with silver sunglasses, and bare feet. He did not wait until he was close to shout, instead calling across the green as he rushed forward. "Was there an attack? Is my family safe? Is Fleur okay? Gabrielle? Apolline?"

John held his hands up in a universal gesture of peace. His response was measured, and calm. "They are fine and well, Lord Delacour. Your wife and daughters are healthy, and sitting within the main sitting room." While Sebastien slowed from a dead sprint and took several relieved breaths, he did not cease his movement. Deep within his mind he still held a need to see his family for himself, as if only in holding them could he feel assured that he had not failed by being absent when they had needed him.

Maximilien and Timofey, though seeming placated as well, both had noticed something that the Minister of Arcane Defenses, in his rush, had not. A man's dead body. Maximilien did not hold his tongue.

"So there was indeed an attack?" Sebastien whirled around to see what the taller man was referring to, then seeing the corpse with a collapsed chest, turned to the bodyguard he had hired for answers. In doing so, he also noticed two more dead men behind John and nearer to the front door.

"Yes, sir. We were attacked by a group of seven men. They arrived at the fringes of the property around three in the morning, but due to this chateau's comprehensive wards, they did not reach the front door of the house until the sun was beginning to rise, around half past six." John replied. "I chose to leave them where they died, 'thought it would make it easier for you legally." Sebastien took another deep breath, calming his racing heart, and stopped in front of the boy on his payroll.

"Where are they?"

"One in a pit by the western side of the river, one beside your two compatriots, two behind me, two by the southern chateau entrance, and the Count beside where your statue of Caesar was. I'm afraid I couldn't stop him from destroying it." This was accompanied with the slightest of tilt to the corner of his mouth, but it was gone as soon as Sebastien saw it. He thought on all that John had said, and came up a few questions short.

"A pit by the river?"

"Yes, sir. Filled with punjis." Sebastien and Timofey winced. Maximilien began to smile. His was the next question.

"You took down seven men by yourself?"

"I took down five. Salomé Bardot took down two that flanked the southern entrance." Each man reacted differently. While he was still smiling, Maximilien nodded his head, then passed by the others to examine the two dead men behind John. Timofey cocked an eyebrow, and Sebastien frowned.

"Salomé took down two by herself? Without injury?" At that John held back a wince.

"She is unharmed, but was almost assaulted, physically, by the two she killed. Her mental state seems good, but only time will tell." John saw Lord Delacour turn slightly pale.

"Where is she?"

"With your wife and eldest daughter in the main living room. Besides Salomé and me, only they knew of the attack. Jezebel is with Gabrielle, both are stunned and sleeping safely in their room." Sebastien nodded once, and walked by the bodyguard, determined to see his family. Timofey, however, followed Maximilien, looking at the two dead would-be-attackers whose faces were a mess of flesh. He spoke now to John, looking up at the boy.

"What spell did you use?" John approached, bare feet making no noise on the soft grass and cool stone.

"Cartilage-to-magma curse."

"Where did you learn such a thing!?" The commandant's face was a blanched picture of shock.

"At the Akadimía we studied, among other things, the spells used by various magical groups around the globe. One of these groups were the Marshals." Even Maximilien gave a half-shudder at the mention of the sanctioned enforcers of the ICW.

Throughout history, if someone or some group (at times even countries) dared to disobey the decrees of the International Confederation of Wizards, they would task one of the three Marshals with the problem. Normally, one of the three killers would in turn task one of their own seven subordinate magi with the job, and the problem would soon no longer be one. These subordinates, nicknamed the Marshal's Aces, did not always have the renown of their bosses, but they were not to be underestimated. Famously, in 1683, one Marshal had assigned the defense of Vienna to his best Ace, Tomasz Dabrowa. The Polish mage had been known for his flair for the dramatics, and had called in a favor from the King of Poland.

Jan Sobieski had somehow managed to take 25,000 of the elite Hussar cavalry along with 28 pieces of artillery up the side of the looming Kahlenberg Mountain, a thitherto unprecedented task. Every tactician on either side had said scaling the mountain would be impossible with cavalry, much less artillery. Yet impossibly, magically, Sobieski had succeeded. He then proceeded to charge down the side of the mountain with his cavalry, and rout the 150,000 man Ottoman army in a victory so total, the Empire never again presented a true threat to Europe. It was even said that when the sun rose, Dabrowa had set the spears of his cavalry alight, and that the crimson fire had burned amongst the corpses of the dead for days after.

Timofey remembered being taught what had happened at Vienna, and shuddered at the thought. That hadn't even been a Marshal, just an Ace. He looked at the boy now. Not only had he claimed that he had studied and learned the spells used by such a lethal group…hadn't he said he was—

"You're part of the Akadimía?" Lord Delaguède's voice betrayed his surprise.

"Yes, sir." There was now a spark of respect in the blond titan's eye.

* * *

Sebastien held some expectations when he walked into the living room, but the scene still threatened to crack his heart. His Apolline sat, arms wrapped around the curled-up form of Salomé, whose eyes were puffy and red from crying, tear trails drawing rivers down her cheeks. He heard his wife whispering and cooing softly to the distraught girl, with Fleur sandwiching her friend into a bundle of warmth and comfort. When he entered, however, his daughter shot to her feet, ran over to him, and smacked him across the face. He blinked, and opened his mouth to respond when she buried her face into his shoulder, and began shaking. Wrapping her in his arms, he carried her over to a love seat across from the couch where his wife sat, and plopped into the soft cushions. His voice was stern, but gentle in volume.

"I know you're upset, Fleur, but if you smack me again you will be punished. I am still your father." She nodded into his shoulder, and raised her head to look at his brown eyes with her crystal blue ones, showing both parts apology, and confusion.

"Did you know there would be an attack?" Her voice was just above a whisper.

"Yes, ma cherie." She sputtered in surprise and indignation, and he heard a similar sound, though muffled, from her friend in Apolline's embrace. He continued, however, when he began to feel Fleur's shakes increase and her skin began to grow hot to the touch. "Fleur, at peace. Do not let yourself transform. I will answer the questions you have. First however," He turned from looking at her to looking at Salomé, "It was never my intention for you to be in any real danger Salomé. I've seen you here enough to know you are a wonderful girl, and to consider you a member of this household. I truly believed you and Jezebel would be safer here than at Jezebel's house. I know that may be hard to understand, but I hope in telling you, your confusion will subside." He paused, and took a breath, pleased to notice that Fleur had cooled down and was listening intently as well.

"It started when Timofey brought to my attention that one of the men I expected to run for my office next election died mysteriously. Individually, this wouldn't stand as a greater problem than any other political tragedy, but then Sophie Thomas, the former Minister of Intelligence, approaches me with news that Lucius Malfoy had been seen entering France to visit his cousin Count Flavius Malfoy, as well as Aramis Motierre, and Mance Chervaux. Three days later, she is called back to the ICW and Motierre is appointed Minister of Intelligence. So we have a quartet of known blood-purists, one of whom has long wanted my job, having a secret meeting in France. Suddenly, one becomes a minister, and another who is running to be minister starts losing competition." He looked between the three women in the room with him.

"So I contacted my friend from when I attended Beauxbatons, Luis-Gerrard Laurent, asking if he could recommend a bodyguard for Fleur." Sebastien heard a small gasp from within his wife's arms, a gasp of understanding. He continued. "He flooed me back saying he had found the perfect one, and when we met in person, he presented John to Apolline and me. John is a graduate of the most elite bodyguard program in the world, the Akadimía." Sebastien made to stand, but Fleur grumbled into his shoulder so he affixed her with a look. She grumbled again, but relented, getting up, and moving over back to where she could hug her friend. Sebastien followed her, but stopped at the foot of the couch, and dropped to sit with one knee raised and the other leg crossed beneath him. Looking deep into the grey eyes that stared back, he spoke gently.

"Salomé, I want you to know that I never thought you would come to any harm, and I am sorry that you have. I explained why I did what I did so that you would know that there were, in fact, some thoughts going through my head when I made the decision to have you and Jezebel stay the night. However, despite good intentions, I fucked up." The eyes blinked, and he heard his wife suck in breath to reprimand him, but he pushed on. "Simply, plainly, I fucked up and broke the trust you have in me as an adult, and as your friend's father. If you don't want to come back here, I understand. I hope you don't take any of the blame I deserve, and put it on my daughter. She deserves a friend like you, even if her dad doesn't." He smiled sadly, but there was genuine love in his eyes, and his feelings were bare to see. Salomé blinked new tears back, and sniffled loudly. When she spoke, it was a soft murmur.

"Ish fhinne…" She blinked again, and brought a bunched trio of tissues up from somewhere beneath the heavy quilt she and Apolline were half-covered with and blew equal parts snot and mucus into it. After wiping her nose, she flicked it off to the side, and into a large pile that had been gathering beside the couch. Apolline glanced at the pile, and idly _evanesced_ it. Salomé tried again. "Its fine…I mean, I know I'm not going to be right as rain tomorrow, but I'm safe here." She realized the irony of that statement, and quickly tried to explain. "I placed myself in danger when I volunteered to help. I don't hold any of you to blame." She took a deep breath, and tried on a smile. It fell short of smiles he had seen from her before, but an effort none the less. "Can…Can I speak with John?" Sebastien nodded, and stood up.

"Do you want us here for it?"

"Private, just a minute, if that's okay?"

"Of course it is fine!" Apolline motioned for Fleur to get up.

"Thank you…Monsieur and Madame Delacour…and you too Fleur, thank you for everything." Apolline smiled as she ushered her family out of the room, turning to wink over her shoulder.

"Not a problem dear, though if you keep calling me Madame Delacour, we might have one." Salomé smiled shyly, and gave a small apology before the door was shut, and she was alone with her thoughts. Probably not what the Delacours had intended, but Salomé wasn't complaining. She needed a few minutes to think. Rubbing her face with both hands, they came away with snot and tears, and she spent a few minutes trying to grab tissues without befouling the quilt. Quite a few minutes, indeed.

* * *

Sebastien walked with his family as far as the entrance hall, where the two women went upstairs to check on the girls, and he continued outside, only to find the front yard devoid of people. Following distant voices, he found the others at the southern entrance, on the patio beside the dueling lane and two more corpses. He glanced at them as he approached John.

"John, Salomé wants to talk to you." The boy nodded, and as he made to pass Sebastien, the older man put a hand on his shoulder. He pretended not to notice the boy give the slightest of flinches. "You be easy on her, or we will have words." John saw the ice in his employer's eyes, and gave a nod.

"Sir, with all due respect, it was never going to be any other way." It was Sebastien's turn to nod, and he let the boy on his way. Turning to Lord Delaguède and Commandant Pierre, he fielded his next question.

"Do we know any of the men?" Timofey chose to answer.

"None of the three dead by the front door were anyone we knew, but these two are. One is Marc Gaspard, a former Gringotts employed cursebreaker and rune-smith, the other is Gerrard Montblanc, third heir to the magical half of the family. Last I knew he was keeping his nose clean in Vichy." Sebastien looked next to huge man who scratched at the side of his blond head. Maximilien met his inquisitive gaze and sighed.

"He was a dueler in the underground leagues a few years back, then he dropped out when one of his siblings died. I hadn't seen him since."

"Who was his sponsor in the league?" Lord Delacour had a guess, and the answer fulfilled it.

"Count Flavius Malfoy." The three men were silent for a second, taking in the scene. Then Timofey broke the silence.

"So Gerrard here went from minor league duelist to a professional hitman."

"Looks like." The white-garmented giant grunted.

"What do you think of this?" Maximilien gave a mocking glare at Lord Delacour.

"They call me _marteau_ not Poirot." Despite the situation, Sebastien chuckled.

"Timofey then, how did they die?" The commandant took another minute to look over the patio. He clicked his tongue, then stood up from where he had been crouching. In his hand was a wand.

"They hit her from behind, and she lost the wand." He shook the piece of wood in emphasis. "Then they grappled?" He frowned, and then winced. "I think that's when they tried to…well, rape her. She surprised them." He gestured to the crooked leg of one of the dead. "She broke his leg, and took his wand. It's missing. After that…well, she killed them both." Maximilien shook his head with a touch of respect.

"Tough girl."

"So I keep finding out." Sebastien shook his head, then, "Well, I'm going to go find Flavius Malfoy's corpse and kick the shit out of it." Timofey was quick to step towards his boss.

"Sir, I'm afraid I can't let you tamper with the—"

"It was a joke, Pierre."

"Ah, yes sir."

* * *

Salomé heard the firm knock on the sitting room door, and gathered her cracked composure. "Come in."

John was dressed as he always seemed to be, slacks, turtleneck, bare feet, and assured confidence. He shut the door quietly behind him, and moved to sit across from her. She watched as he leaned back in a relaxed pose. Chewing on her lip, she tried in vain to think of the right words to say. In her thinking, a long silence began to grow in the room, but to her relief, John did not break it, he just watched her. She felt his gaze, despite her own lowered eyes, and after one more deep breath, she raised her head to look at his face.

"Thank you." She kept her voice low, but infused it with all the strength she could muster without it failing her.

"For what?"

"Without…without you we wouldn't have made it. Without you, Fleur, Jezebel, Gabrielle, Apolline, and I would have been…would have been." She swallowed the word. Then she shook her head, and forced herself to say it. "We would have been raped."

"I recall you taking on two of them without me."

"That was luck." She spoke with a touch more volume this time.

"Bullshit." Silence.

"E-excuse me?"

"I don't know if you called me in here just to say thanks, or if you wanted some comforting, but I'm not going to let that pass. That's bullshit. Luck is a spell missing you by a hairsbreadth. Luck is hiding in just the right spot to not be found. Luck is tripping and a volley of bullets cutting the air where you stood." He paused for a split second, noticing no confusion on her face after the last example. A subtle validation of his theory. "Luck is _not_ shrugging off a stunner. Luck is _not_ targeting an enemy's weakness at the exact right time. Luck is _not_ moving towards danger at the perfect moment to defeat it.

"You are just trying to hide from the fact that killing was reflexive for you. You are scared of branding yourself a killer." His words were not loud, but they hammered at the fragile walls that Salomé had raised to defend her battered psyche. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the thanks, but you need to realize that you aren't helpless. It may be hard to admit, but you must acknowledge that you have the killer instinct. Accept it. It helped you fight back, it helped you win." He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, and stared at her with an intensity she hadn't expected. "So I have a question for you Salomé. You won when you were attacked physically, and you seem to be fighting your second battle right now. Your mental battle. So, are you going to win it?"

"yeah." Her response was pathetic, even to her own ears.

"Doesn't sound like it."

"I will win."

"And the battle after that? Are you going to cower from yourself the next time you are in danger? Are you going to let yourself and the people you love get hurt because you are too cowardly to accept that killing is the right choice? Don't tell me you are naive enough to think this is the last time you will have to fight for your life?" She hissed at that, and stood up, throwing off her blanket and taking a step towards him. He stood too, and met her halfway, eyes locked with only a pair of silver glasses in the way. She was surprised to realize he was shorter than her, but her momentary flash of superiority melted as his presence seemed to grow and fill the room. It took every fiber of strength she had to stand her ground.

"Je gagnerai. I _will _win. All of them."

"How?" It was just the one word that took all of the wind from her sails, and she sat down. Her head fell in her hands, but she quickly remembered her blustering guarantee, and raised her head up again, squaring her shoulders as best she could. This _thing_, this whole conversation, she was realizing, was itself a war. A test. She looked up at the still standing bodyguard and found the answer.

"I want you to train me. I don't want to be weak, but…but I don't want to lose myself to that instinct." She thought she saw his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but she wasn't sure.

"I won't take it easy on you."

"Because I'm a girl?"

"No." He gave a quick bark of laughter. "Because you are weak." He raised a hand to stall her scathing reply. "Mentally, you seem durable, perhaps even strong. But physically, magically, emotionally, you need more work."

Salomé bit her tongue to hold back from lashing out. The last thing she wanted to do was let some barefoot boy call her weak, but then she thought back to the skill he demonstrated at the chateau entrance. To how he kept a focused mind enough to make plans during the heat of the battle. She remembered his call about how the men would split.

"Wait…wait! You said they wouldn't go the long way around the house!" John shrugged the comment off.

"It was very unlikely that they would." Though she didn't like that simple answer, Salomé realized that it would be childish to throw the blame on someone for one simple, unlikely misjudgment. She closed her eyes and took a few breaths to calm herself down, as the memories of the short fight came back full force. She had only been there because she had volunteered. It wasn't his fault. She crushed the resentment hidden deep within her, the emotions that were making excuses for her own errors. When she opened her eyes, he was sitting again, and the tension in the room had faded into nonexistence.

"When do we start?"

"The training? Tomorrow." Her eyes widened at that.

"Demain? Already?"

"Got a reason not to start then?" She frowned in response, but then realized something.

"Why are you showing all your emotion all of a sudden? Just yesterday morning you wouldn't smile, shrug, or show your thoughts. Now…well now you are almost completely different." The corner of his mouth curved, but his response still seemed serious.

"I've proved myself." Noticing the blatant confusion across her face, he continued. "When I am first hired, due to my age, I am underestimated. Even when people hear the organization I represent, they still might think it a joke. Acting as cold and serious as I was, acting beyond my age, it makes them question their own preconceptions, makes them wonder. After the people that hire me see me in action, they never have reason to doubt, and then I can drop most of my shields." There was quiet for a short time, then Salomé managed a cheeky grin.

"You should smile more, it makes you seem, well, less like a statue." For some reason, that elicited an unveiled reply. Wide, and genuine, his wry smile changed the lines of his face. The cold mercenary became a boy her own age. But despite the smile, and the brief jump of her heart, Salomé didn't miss his choice of words. _Shields._

* * *

Though frost coated the bristles behind him, and snow blanketed his vision ahead, Viktor Krum lay low on his broom and rocketed through the sky. A grey blur streaked through the blizzard, and he sloth-rolled on his broom, flying upside-down as the bludger battered snow where he had just been. A green streak shot parallel to him in the opposite direction. Green, with a touch of brown. Reaching one hand out further below him, Viktor snatched the quaffle from one of opponent's chasers, and swung back on top of his broom. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur of black and red, and without a second thought, he launched the quaffle side-armed, and the blur, his teammate, caught it, spiraling through a double-team that had materialized from the white void, and slotting a neat shot past the keeper.

He nodded to the chaser as she soared past him, rushing from the quick counter-attack back to help on defense. Viktor was proud of the team he had formed. Master Furan had informed him of the Triwizard Tournament midway through the previous year, and he had spent what time he hadn't already dedicated for training for the Quidditch World Cup and the Tournament itself drafting a team of the best players Durmstrang had to offer. Admittedly, it hadn't been easy to pick the best from across its' five school teams, but it was this one chaser that had shown up to tryouts uninvited that had surprised him the most. She had worked her ass off to beat Smolev for the position of third chaser, and had yet to make him regret placing her on first team.

The legendary seeker couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he caught a glimpse of gold in the white expanse. When Durmstrang played Hogwarts and Beauxbatons in the Triwizard's Quidditch Tournament, the other schools would have more than just one player to fear. He was still lost in his plans when his fingers closed around the snitch. It hadn't been difficult to catch, after all, he wasn't lauded as the best in the world for no reason.

* * *

That afternoon saw the Delacour family, John, Salomé, and Jezebel, still in their main sitting room, but this time sitting on the floor in a loose circle. Jezebel and Gabrielle had both been informed that there had been an attempted attack on the chateau, but that it had failed and that the legion of Ministry employees crawling around the property were the result of an overreacting Commandant and were finishing up their police work. Timofey had quickly, and willingly, agreed to the slight deception, and shouldered the 'blame' to keep little Gabby and the chatty Jezebel from panic. He had agreed with Sebastien that there was now a definite need to delegate some human security for the chateau, and was filling the paperwork to have a squad of the Department of Arcane Defenses' enforcement branch, _le Dague Groupe_, deployed there indefinitely.

While the Commandant was busy with bureaucracy, and Ministry employees were examining and marveling over the wards that had seemingly fallen to the attackers only to pop back up once the team had passed through. And so, to avoid the wave of visitors, all carefully watched by a white-clad titan of a man, the residents of the Chateau sat in a circle, and played a game to pass the time.

Currently, Gabrielle was giggling, Jezebel was snickering, and rest wore smiles. The rest, save for John, who sat in contemplative thought, drumming his fingers together in a steeple in front of his mouth, as his eyes flicked between the others.

"Am I American?" This was met with a chorus of negative responses. "Asian?" Again, negative. "European, then?" This time, the others nodded. John made to idly tousle his own hair in thought, but then remembered the card stuck to his forehead, and stopped himself, instead continuing the drumming of fingertip on fingertip. "Am I still alive today? No? Then…was I alive before the fall of Rome?" The response was slower this time from the Delacours and co, but affirmative. John grinned. "Was I alive during the fall of Rome?" This time there was an exasperated sigh from the family.

"Who was it this time?" Jezebel huffed, indignant that, yet again, someone had told him with their reactions more than he had asked. The boy in silver glasses smirked.

"You actually. You moved your hands like you were about to make a comment, but only said yes. Because I know you are a very…enthusiastic conveyer of information, I figured that you had wanted to add more, but stopped yourself." Jezebel glowered, but Gabrielle let out a musical laugh.

"Oh no! John is right! You talk as much with your hands as you do with—ow!" She was cut off by her sister's elbow, and a laugh was shared by all but Jezebel, who tried to pretend the perceived slight was beneath her. A diplomat as always, Apolline continued the game.

"Oui, you were alive during the fall of Rome." John considered this.

"Am I an orator?" There was quiet, and when the responses came, they were less than comprehensive. "I was more famous for something other than speaking." At that, there was uniform agreement. "Am I a general?" Again, confirmation. "Am I Roman?"

"Definitely not!" Gabrielle smirked, only to be battered by both Jezebel and her sister for the telling response.

"So I aided in the fall of Rome?"

"Oui, c'est vrai."

"Am I Carthaginian?"

"Non."

"Hungarian?"

"Non."

"German?" Silence. John sighed. "Germanic?" The elder Delacours looked to each other and grinned.

"I supposed we can say yes to that." John gave them a withering look.

"Would you prefer I said 'Am I a native of the region of central Europe to one day be considered a part of the Holy Roman Empire that was perhaps the first demonstration of Germanic unification for the purpose of conquest?'" Fleur took a bite of a particularly crunchy apple from the platter of snacks in between the group.

"Yes. Yes we would." She said between crisp bites. John's glare turned to her, focusing his feigned indignation on her and tuning out the smiles around.

"Fine. Was I instrumental in the leadership of a consolidation of the Vandals, Alans, and the multitudes of barbarian forces that would march into Italy and hold Rome itself hostage?"

"Yes. Yes you were." Fleur kept the humor off her face, but it was clear in the perfect imitation of her previous answer's dry undertone.

"Am I Gaiseric?"

"Yes!" The rest cheered as John removed the card from his forehead, and wiped off the dry-erase lettering, before writing a name of his own choice. The set of erasable cards and markers had been a quick purchase by the Delacours after learning of the game from Salomé several months prior, and had been among the family's go to games ever since.

"Here." John said, passing the card face down to Fleur, who quickly stuck it to her head with a flick of her wand and a softly spoken charm. The rest of the players read the card quickly, and while all of them smiled, as was usual in such a game, Sebastien and Apolline looked quickly at John. They, unlike their younger companions, thought they got the less obvious reason for John's choice. Jezebel too, seemed to frown in thought. Fleur didn't see the look, and scrunched up her nose before deciding on her first question.

"Am I fictional?"

"Nope."

"European?" John answered this time.

"Of course. I didn't think you would know someone from anywhere else." There was a chorus of laughter at this, and Fleur reddened. She chose to pretend that she had somehow not heard the lancing jibe, though her face betrayed her. Her weakness in History was a sore spot to her, understandable considering her excellent grades in all other classes.

"As John said, am I alive today?" The answer was a definitive no. She copied her bodyguard again. "Was I alive during the fall of Rome?" Again, negative. "Before its fall?" This time, affirmative responses. "Before Rome was founded?"

"Yes." John said.

"Are you sure I know this person? I'll admit that my knowledge of ancient history is not as solid as Jezebel's." Everyone smiled at that.

"I am certain you know this person." Apolline assured her daughter. Fleur clicked her tongue in thought.

"Am I a girl?" Several responses seemed imminent, but John waved them silent, and stared at her, a smirk on his lips.

"No." He said. She frowned, but then realization hit and she scowled.

"Ok, smartass, am I a woman?"

"Yes, yes you are." Fleur decided that the snarkiness was not nearly so amusing when she was the one on the receiving end.

"Am I magical?" To this, there were different answers. Gabby said no, as did Salomé. Fleur's parents both said yes. John stayed silent, but it was Jezebel who gave the most comprehensive reply.

"I read somewhere, I forget where actually, it might have been in Professor Giuseppe class when he was going over the answers for our third exam…yeah, that was when I read it. I remember because I aced the exam and got the bonus too, so when he was going over his grading with the rest of class, I think you got an Acceptable on that one Fleur, anyway as I was saying, I had nothing better to do than read from the textbook, and I think it said that she was not commonly thought of as being a magical, but there were some rumors…" Jezebel looked to Sebastien and his wife. Though oblivious to Fleur's face having just hit a record level of scarlet, she seemed to be seeking the counsel of Mr. and Mme. Delacour about some other thing. Sebastien nodded, answering Jezebel, and spoke quickly so his daughter wouldn't burst in anger.

"I do not think we need to hear more of Professor Giuseppe…" he began looking apologetically at his elder daughter, "…but you are right, Fleur, your person was indeed magical." The silver haired classmate of the mouthy Jezebel took several deep breaths before she began flinging fireballs, and then smiled to hide her grimace.

"So I am a magical…if I wasn't famous for my magic…hmmm." She mentally began cycling through the names of women who were famous before the rise of Rome. "Was I made more famous by who my children were?"

"A good question." Sebastien smiled. "But no." Salomé saw where her friend had been going.

"You are not from the Old Testament." She added helpfully. Fleur deflated at that.

"Well there go half my ideas…let's see…was I—" There was a knock at the door, and Timofey stuck his head in.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Monsieur and Madame Voller are here." Jezebel shot to her feet, and gave her friends their customary hugs in farewell. She gave her thanks to the elder Delacours, and made sure to wipe the lettering off of Fleur's card ("No peeking! We will finish this game later!") on her way out the door to return home with her parents. After the morning that all but Gabrielle had had, Jezebel's disappearance seemed so sudden, as if they hadn't had enough time together. Quickly thereafter, the family decide to abandon the game for now, and prepare an early supper. Though Gabrielle could feel the strange tenseness amongst the rest of her family and friends, she couldn't make sense of it, and resolved to be a cheering force for the rest of the evening. And, though they couldn't acknowledge it without revealing the veracity of little Gabby's feelings, the entire house enjoyed the seemingly limitless joyful energy that the youngest Delacour exuded.

* * *

"I think you misheard. I said, Give. Me. Your. Wand." Lucius hid his shock well, though to her trained eye, Voldemort's Shadow saw his confusion make way for fear. However, pride still blossomed in the depths of his soul, pride that she saw as easily as she saw the stars in the dark sky. She continued. "Or…do I need to add willful disobedience to my report?" As if it had tried to bite him, Lucius all but flung his cane to her, and she felt a flush of pleasure flood through her at the taste of his fear on the night breeze. "Good." She pulled the wand free of its sheath, and admired the silver snake. "This is your primary wand?"

"Yes."

"Where is your secondary?"

"Locked away. Until I am called to go hunting, of course, as per our Lord's orders." She smiled at his answer. He knew he was in trouble. He only ever switched to a formal 'our Lord' when he knew that. With a nod, she leaned slowly towards the outwardly stoic blonde man, and tapped him on the nose with his own wand.

"_Ascendio_." Lucius shot up into the sky with a cry of surprise. She reveled in his cry for help, for her to slow his fall with magic. She enjoyed his shrieking all the way until he accepted his fate, and a few seconds later, gravity brought him crunching back into the ground. His silent acceptance didn't survive his legs breaking on impact with audible snaps, and his wails brought lights flickering on in his Manor behind where he lay.

The Shadow crouched beside the broken lord, and tapped her wand to his left leg. "_Ossus Mendum."_ She whispered, and watched his eyes bulge as his bones clicked and cracked back together. It was an old spell, one invented long before the first healing spell that accounted for pain. Perfect. Though she kept her eyes on his, she saw in her peripheral his wife and son emerge from the Manor to find the source of the screams. When she saw that the daze of pain had receded enough for him to focus on her face and words, she spoke again. "Because our Master is generous, he permitted me to magically heal the one leg. The other? You may splint it, but not mend it with magic. Let it heal naturally." She cocked her head as if something had just come to her. "Naturally…like a muggle! It's only fitting for someone who outsourced a task that he had been given directly by our Lord…fitting for a pathetic Pureblood who asked for help from his Mugglefucking cousin….oh wait…" She patted his cheek condescendingly. "But that's a chat we can have another time…"

She stood at last, ignoring his pathetic mewling. Sheathing Lucius' wand, Voldemort's Shadow threw the cane off to the side, and walked towards Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. "Hello darling! Hello dear." She addressed each in turn. Clearly happier to see one than the other. Narcissa's mask was one of happiness at the surprise visit. Draco's false countenance was not the perfection that his mother effortlessly mustered, so he hid his fear behind a mask of curiosity. Ever the paragon of her art, Narcissa gave a deep curtsy.

"Welcome to our Manor, Lady Carrow. How may we best be assets for our Master and his Shadow this evening?"

"Oh hush Cissy, it's always Amycus to you darling! After all, our Lord has no displeasure with you. I came to bring a message to your husband, and to bring…young Draco to meet our Lord." Draco couldn't hide the shock in his eyes, but his mother did.

"This is a wonderful message indeed! Draco, go along. Remember, it is never prudent to keep the Lord waiting." Draco nodded his acknowledgement, throat thick with swallowed words. He fell into step behind the Shadow as she turned on her heel, face now devoid of the carefree attitude she had directed towards his mother, and she strode towards the apparition point.

She made sure to step over his father, where he was pitifully crawling towards his cane.

* * *

**N/B: \Maximilien comments that he is called the **_**hammer**_** not Poirot. Poirot is a legendary Belgian detective written by Agatha Christie. **

** \Yes we are adding a Dueling and Quidditch Events to the Triwizard Tournament. This is both because my boyfriend wants more excuses to write action scenes, and Quidditch is cool.**

**\**_**Dague Groupe **_**translates as Dagger Group. It just sounded like an awesome name for the french Aurors.**

** \So, Amycus Carrow….that's my fault. I somehow completely forgot that he is a he, and Alecto is the she. [B/N: I told her, but she wouldn't listen.] Regardless, Imma keep it, so now Amycus Carrow is the sister of Alecto Carrow.**

**\_Ossus Mendum _is bullshit latin (my go-to choice for spells) for Mend the Bone. I tried to have it be as simple and brutish in word as it is in effect.**

* * *

** Authors Note: **

** Here is a chapter much more quickly than my standard upload, and there should be another up in a few weeks. Unfortunately, there will be a three month gap after that before chapter six. I know my promise to not do that to y'all, but the Marine Corps doesn't permit phones, computers, or otherwise at Basic Training. After that, however, I should be back to a one or two chapter a month schedule.**

** Additionally, a shout out is necessary for a Guest and 'Zicou' who corrected my poor French in the previous chapter. In the wise words of a legend, "You are breathtaking!"**

** [B/N: While not everyone will like the tough talk John has for Salomé, it is what he as a character would say considering his experiences, and it will have a fun impact on her development as a character. **

** Also, we have tragically realized that due to Basic Training, Vi and I will not be able to see the new Star Wars together on opening night, a violation of our tradition with the new movies. So no spoilers in the reviews! I will lose my cool if I check them and find spoilers... I might even add some more characters to the GRRM list!]**

**May the Force be with Y'all,**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	5. Lights in the Night

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived**_** by the Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer:**** I'm not British, French, Irish, Polish, nor Bulgarian.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-V-

The morning of her first training session, Salomé awoke to being dropped in the Mediterranean. She had spluttered indignantly and tread water until she got her bearings. In the pre-dawn darkness, it took a minute, the cold of the water seeped through her drenched hoodie and sweatpants and into her bones. Then seeing John standing barefoot on the shore, she angrily swam towards him, and dragged herself out of the surf.

"What the fuck, John!?" Her indignation was only increased by his superior smirk.

"First rule. Always stay aware. Don't let anyone get the drop on you."

"I was in my room! Sleeping!"

"And?"

"And!? You can't just go barging into other people's rooms!" She glanced down and saw what she was wearing. "Did you transfigure my clothes!?"

"Yes."

"Why?" She was angry. She knew that in time the grey clothes would turn back to their normal, fox dotted pajamas, but it still was an insult to her dignity.

"Why not?"

"Why not!?" Salomé took a deep breath, trying to ignore his sudden childishness. "Because I am a girl, and you don't barge into girl's rooms and transfigure what they are wearing. Especially without permission!"

"You asked me to train you." That stopped her. For all of two seconds.

"This…this is your idea of training?" She was incredulous. He wasn't.

"This is the beginning. Yep. Now where is your wand?" Wearily, the blonde reached out of instinct to her side, then realized she was no longer inside, that she was grasping at air where normally her wand was at her bedside table.

"It's still inside." John held up her wand.

"Rule two. Don't give your enemy access to your weapon." She frowned at that, but John was pleased to see she didn't argue the distinction. With a smile, the bodyguard flung her wand end over end back into the water. Salomé gaped and looked from him to her wand. Then she tore off into the water, swimming into the dark waves to where her wand was floating forty yards off shore. She grabbed the length of black walnut and swam back to John. His smile was shark-like. "May I see your wand?" She smiled back, breathing heavily.

"Rule two. Don't give your enemy access to your weapon." His smile stayed wide.

"_Depulso._" The small explosion hit the sand in front of Salomé, the force of it flinging her legs out from under her, and she face-planted into the beach with an undignified squawk of surpise. "_Expelliarmus_…_ Accio." _She heard the sound of her wand smacking into his palm. Groaning, the blonde got to her feet, sand covering her from hair to toe. John waved her wand. "Rule two. Don't give your enemy access to your weapon." She flipped him off.

"I was going to say you aren't my enemy."

"You were?"

"Yep." She grunted as she stood. "But now I'm not so sure."

"Let's not leave any doubt then." John threw her wand back into the waves. Salomé cursed, then launched herself back out into the Mediterranean. This time, when she emerged from the sea, she saw John had moved back from the water's edge about a hundred feet. He drew a line in the sand with one foot and called out, "If you cross this line, your training is done." She stopped with the waves lapping at her heels. She considered, then she launched an all-out attack.

She was sent swimming after her wand.

After the fourth failure, she realized, with no small hope, that John was erasing and moving the line a few feet forward every failure of hers. She didn't dare acknowledge the kindness, for fear of it being retracted. It was several dozen failures later that she realized it was no mercy. The closer he got, the less time she had to plan and the sooner she was under fire from the barefoot boy. By the time his line was only a body's length from the water, she never left the oceans embrace, just swimming, launching spells as soon as her feet felt the sandy bottom, and then swimming once more back out when her wand was flung.

The sun was just beginning to peak over the distant horizon when the lapping tide crossed the line before she did. John stopped firing spells, and she gratefully dragged herself from the sea's embrace and collapsed in the sand at his feet. The cold water crashed and flowed around her, but she didn't care. Her body was completely sapped of strength. Her breathing was ragged and deep. She blinked saltwater from her puffy eyes and looked up to see herself in the reflective silver of John's glasses. Even in the distorted mirrors, she could see how much of a mess she was.

"You failed. We will see if you succeed tomorrow." Then he was gone, and she lay staring up at the brightening sky. A particularly large wave crashed over her, and she was left sputtering and coughing up water. Deciding she didn't want to be slowly waterboarded by the rising waves, she clawed her way up the beach, pulled herself to her feet with the aid of a sand dune, and staggered back to the chateau, where a hot shower, and eventually breakfast, awaited.

Her second morning had started the same way as her first. Though she had set an alarm to wake her, and several security spells on her door, she still awoke to black waves in the darkness. No luck crossing the line that day either. Nor for the next five days. No matter what she tried, she still woke to the waves, and lost to them in the seemingly simple task of crossing a line in the sand. She began to glare at John throughout the day. Something not unnoticed by Fleur and her family, though they didn't comment on it.

On the eighth day, she awoke to soft sheets, dry clothes, and a day of apparent relaxation. That night, however, she awoke after less than an hour of sleep to something licking her face. Rolling to her feet, she found herself surrounded by a calm crowd of sheep, looking at her with emotionless concern in their empty eyes. The blonde took in her surroundings, and saw John hadn't filled her room with sheep, but brought her to a pasture…somewhere. She scratched her head and rubbed bleary eyes. She would kick his…she would try to kick his ass when she next saw him. Her task, Salomé assumed, was to make her way home. And so she did, slowly. She tried using a _point-me _spell to show her the way to Chateau Delacour, only to remember the wards around the house.

The sixth-year student's next strategy was to apparate, but to her surprise she found she couldn't when she bounced off of a preventive ward and crashed into the grass and dirt of the pasture. The sheep ambled over, seeing if she was dead, and one tried to graze on her hoodie. Cursing, she shot to her feet and launched a detection spell at the sky, only for it to not connect with any static wards and drive her into confused silence. That only lasted a few seconds before she fired off every verbal curse she could think of at the thought of the infuriating boy named Constantine. The sheep looked on with concern. One bleated, adding its own two cents to her rant.

Eventually, she stopped, and as so often in times of confusion, she thought of her brother, and the lessons that had helped her with so much. Salomé looked to the stars, and recognized enough to make her way slowly south.

The trip was slow going, and even once she hit a road, she wasn't comfortable enough to hitch a ride on a vehicle traveling the desolate road, so she hid when she heard the sounds of tires on gravel. Her walking took her briefly along a more major thoroughfare, before she was back to walking over grassy fields. Eventually, only a few hours before the sun rose, she saw the glittering Mediterranean, and knew she was close.

"Took you long enough." The Irish accent was as rage-inducing as it was sudden, and she rounded on John, who had been leaning against a tree she had just passed.

"You mothe—" Her anger was cut off as she found herself stunned, immobilized, and disarmed before she finished turning. She was forced to watch in silence as he levitated her to the sea, and only then did she realize it was just about the right time for morning training.

One day, she swore to herself, John Constantine would pay. Then she was dropped into the freezing waters.

Every week thereafter followed a near perfect schedule. The bodyguard had her up much earlier than reasonable, training in the waves, failing to cross a stupid line, then recuperating for the rest of the day. This was repeated every day until a full week had passed. On the eighth day, John would give her a morning off, but in the early night he would leave her somewhere in southern France for her to return home in time for the following mornings training. Then the pattern would begin again. Every now and again he would throw in some other training, but this was always during the afternoon, and was never rigorous enough for her to struggle more than usual with the following session.

John was impressed. Never once, no matter how much he threw at the blonde, did she quit. Even when her fatigue led to her not being able to muster even a simple stunner, she would still doggedly charge him with a wordless growl on her lips, intent to physically tackle him over the line if that was what it took. Her drive to improve herself was borderline unnatural, and she was starting to get too quick at the overnight marches, going so far as to hitch rides with late night truckers to cut down her travel time. John decided he would ramp up the challenge once school started.

* * *

"QUIDDITCH!" Gabrielle burst through the door to John's room with strength and energy belying her age. While he had heard her sprinting footsteps approaching, he had not expected her to carry on into his room with such force, and he was caught off guard as she nearly knocked him over with a flying tackle that would have made a rugby player jealous. Managing to keep his feet, John pried her off of him, and placed her back on the ground. Gabrielle flung her hair out of her face and grinned at him. "IT'S THURSDAY!" John smiled.

"Did you just wake up?"

"Wake up? I hardly slept!" She danced in excitement. "The World Cup is today! Bulgaria versus Ireland! Ahhhhhhh!" Then, in the middle of her jig of joy, a giggle escaped her, and her eyes widened. "You're from IRELAND!" She half crouched and held her hands in the imitation of a top-hat. In his opinion, a pretty poor imitation of a leprechaun. She seemed thrilled, however. "You. Are. The. BEST!" Turning on her heel, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, leaving John Constantine scratching his head. Distantly, he heard her shouting. "MAMA! JOHN IS IRISH! HE'S IRISH! HE'S AWESOME!" John sighed.

"Children, crazy the lot of them."

* * *

Sebastien Delacour had chosen his seats wisely. He had not wanted his children and their guests to be forced into the political conversations that seats in the Top Box would have required, so despite being invited there, he declined politely, and chose seats high enough for a perfect view of the whole stadium, but on the opposite side of the commentators' box. He was glad for his choice of seats for another reason. They were running late. Gabrielle had insisted on stopping at so many wizarding carnival games in the campgrounds, and Fleur had taken so long choosing which jersey to wear from her collection, that the Delacours and co. were climbing the many switch-back stairs to the sound of Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Sports in Britain, introducing the commentators.

"Originally, I had planned on commentating for you all today!" Bagman laughed. "But after serious conversations with Minister Fudge and many letters from you all, we instead have the honor of hosting two of the greatest keepers known to Quidditch. May I present, Lev Yashin of Russia, and Frank Brimsek of the Colonies…er…of the United States of America!"

"Hurry!" Sebastien called to his children, and dodged, bobbed, and wove through the crowd to their open seats. Salomé followed first, then Fleur, Apolline, Gabrielle, and John last, presumably to make sure no one was left behind. The whole group was just in time. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Wizards and Witches! We have made you wait long enough!" The announcer paused to let the crowd roar. "We know why you are all here!" Again he paused for the one hundred thousand strong crowd to pound the stadium with their feet and to yell their throats hoarse in agreement. "Please welcome, the IRISH!"

With an explosion of sound from both fireworks and fans, a green septuplet exploded into the stadium. The Irish players wove amongst each other, green smoke pouring off their brooms. Their captain carried a full pint of beer, and after gulping half of it, he flung the wooden flagon into a sea of green clad raving fans. The heavy container smacked into a red-haired Irishwoman, and she went down like a stone. The man by her side picked the flagon up, raised it in triumph, and finished the beer to roaring applause. As the crowd's manic response quieted to an almost non-deafening note, the announcers continued.

"At keeper, we have the lanky lad from Lancaster, Barry Ryan!"

"Ze only Irishman zat can live in England and still be beloved."

"Well put my Soviet friend. As beaters we have the beast of the southeast, and the beauty of Galway, Patrick Quigley and Angus Connolly!" The mustached menace and his handsome teammate shot by the commentators' box at the calling of their names. Lev Yashin smirked at his companion.

"Could it be said zat those two were instrumental in the thrashing of your team last week?" Frank Brimsek coughed awkwardly at his fellow commentator, and after a second continued.

"Anyway, the Irish lead the attack with Mullet, Troy, and Moran!" Frank gave a few seconds for the applause to dim again, then finished. "And, aiming to compete with the best in the world, seeking the snitch, we have Aidan Lynch!" The small army of Leprechauns interlocked their arms and began river dancing, tiny heels clicking at a feverish pace that incensed the Irish supporters even more. However, a magical silence fell over the stadium as the Bulgarian cheerleaders ran onto the field. They lined up in two rows, facing each other, then as the tension was reaching palpable levels, they spun on their heels, flipping their hair and facing the crowd. They broke into a dance right in time with a thunderous throaty roar from the Bulgarians, as the scarlet seven blew onto the pitch.

"Lev, I'm sure you can pronounce these name better than me, why don't you take it away." The Russian legend nodded, and leaned towards the rune-dotted vocal amplifier.

"Never did I imagine that I would hear an American admit inferiority…ah, here we are. Back by the hoops, Lev Zograf!"

"Named after his grandfather, not after you I am sorry to say."

"Do not be, no one is perfect."

Fleur tuned out the commentators' banter as she focused on John in her peripheral vision. Despite the massive combined power of the cheerleaders' Veela allure, he seemed unfazed. He looked at her, and she flushed, focusing back on the game. Unbeknownst to her, Salomé noticed her blush at John's glance and frowned, mind whirring.

"At beater, ze bone-breaker of Burgas and ze reaver of Razgrad, Pyotr Vulchanov and Ivan Volkov!" The two Bulgarian men flung their bats almost fifty feet to each other and then back.

"Careful they don't do that in a game, wouldn't want a repeat of Russia's tragedy earlier this tournament." Lev grimaced, but continued. He would get the American back for that.

"Hoping to break apart the iron defense of Ireland, Bulgaria brings Vasily Dimitrov, Clara Ivanova, and Alexei Levski!"

"Couldn't have said the names better myself."

"Thank you. And of course, ze only player who truly needs no introduction…"

"VICTOR KRUM!" The entire stadium bellowed, united for those few seconds in true appreciation for the greatest seeker of a generation. Then, the Irish supporters seemed to come to their senses and began hurling half-hearted insults at Krum. The Bulgarian seeker spun and flipped on his broom, showing the dexterity that put him head and shoulder above the rest. Frank saw the white clad referee give a slow flying circuit of the field, and bring the two captains, Krum and Quigley, down to the ball box to rehash the rules.

"There goes the man who will monitor the game, Hassan Mostafa. Best of wishes to him. If this game is anything like Ireland's previous matches, it will be fast and brutal. Now Lev, as one of the most brilliant keepers in the history of the sport, what makes the Irish defense so impenetrable?"

"Well, Frank, I would have to commend the beaters, Quigley and Connolly, and ze technique zey introduced at ze beginning of zis tournament." The Russian said, hands gesturing towards the two.

"You're speaking of the play that is being called the 'Mediwizard Missile'?"

"Precicely. By keeping their eyes on ze play itself, and shifting attention off of ze opponent's seeker and beaters, zey can send a quick bludger directly at any poor throws. If one of ze other teams tries to catch ze bad pass, ze bludger will send zem straight to the Mediwizard."

"Doesn't that let the other team's seeker and beaters have too much space to work with?"

"Not necessarily. Take note of their schedule. No team zey have faced have had a top tier seeker, except for their last game against America. And even in zat game, where ze American caught the snitch, the American _chasers_ only had five attacking runs all game. Any keeper worth his salt can save five runs. Especially with ze speed zat Mullet and Moran bring back to defense."

"That is true. Their speed gives any beater a challenge, not to mention Troy's supernatural ability to shrug off bludgers. If the beaters target the speedsters, Troy will crash into their formation and force a bad pass or shot. If they target Troy, then Mullet and Moran will break up the formation by weaving through it, and either batting down passes or straight up stripping the quaffle, as we saw with Peru in the quarter-finals."

"Exactly." The two commentators stopped to check if the referee had finished formally explaining the 700 rules yet, and seeing that he wasn't, continued. "It will be interesting to see if zey continue zat strategy against ze Bulgarians, or if zey try anything new."

"If I had to wager, I would place my bets on the Bulgarians. All of the most recent games have been quick affairs, and only in the long run does the defense of the Irish start proving deadly."

"I cannot believe I am saying zis, but I agree. Unless Krum can find ze golden snitch in zis golden lit stadium within ze time it takes ze Irish to secure ze vital 160 point lead, ze Irish team's legendary teamwork will outclass his own performance."

"And the Referee has finished his monologue. The players gather in starting formation." Silence slowly fell across the hundred thousand wizards and witches. Even the Leprechauns and Veela ceased their squabbling to watch. Hassan descended to the grass, and unlocked the chest, unleashing the bludgers and the snitch. The later of these was lost almost immediately to the eyes of the crowd. All held their breath as Hassan reached for the quaffle. Then, he flung it into the air, and Moran exploded into action, snatching the ball from the air at the beginning of its decent, zipped past Dimitrov and lanced a shot at the goal from way outside of the shooting arc. Caught by surprise by the lightning quick attack, Zograf almost missed the save, but by leaning far over his broom he managed to deflect the shot with his fingertips.

"Stunning attack by the Irish!"

"Zat was barely saved, Zograf had best remember where he is."

Fleur cheered at the save, and suddenly the Delacour family and co were enthralled by the game. Gabrielle was bouncing up and down, screaming her head off, while her parents were more silent, but by Sebastien's white-knuckled grip on the railing, he was all but calm. Salomé seemed very excited too, if her wide eyes were anything to go by, but she contained her exuberance behind a thin mask of calm. John smiled, excited by the joy he felt pouring off his charges. He was enjoying himself too, but he kept his gaze sweeping the crowd and stadium, one eye out for threats. He noticed Fleur was focused on Krum and Lynch, where Salomé seemed more intent on the chasers. He filed that away for later.

The Irish beaters had done their job, and Ivanova had missed a bad pass to avoid an aimed bludger, allowing Troy to get a hold of the quaffle and led the attack. He shrugged off a vicious jostle from Levski and dropped the ball to Mullet, who was flying below him. She took off like a rocket for the enemy hoops, throwing up a pass to Moran when she was double teamed. She in turn spun on her broom and threw a laser of a pass to the slow Troy.

"A brilliant Porskoff Ploy, then a reverse Porskoff!" The Russian noted.

"Troy shrugs off yet another bludger and winds up for a cannon of a shot!"

"He shoots—"

"HE SCORES!" The Irish fans erupted and the Leprechauns began another jig. Once the floodgates had been cracked, Mullet followed Troy with two more goals. "Krum seems to be rallying his troops. They can't let the Irish play them like a fiddle for long."

"Zey seemed to listen, Zograf makes his second save of ze match, and throws it to Dimitrov who quickly passes it across ze pitch to Levski. Levski laterals to Ivanova. She dodges a bludger from Connolly, feints left, flicks to ze right, and lobs the quaffle back to ze left…SHE SCORES!"

"We were speaking of the snitch earlier and…wait has Krum spotted the snitch!"

"He is diving down, faster and faster. I must give props to Lynch, who has caught up and neck and neck with ze Bulgarian. Krum reaches. Lynch stretches, and panics! Krum pulls up in a heartbeat. It was a fake! KRUM PULLS OF A BEAUTIFUL WRONSKI FEINT!"

"Lynch seems to have swallowed his weight in turf."

"At ze very least. I don't care where you are from, zat has got to hurt!"

"The mediwizards are sprinting over to him. I hope they brought sickles for his eyes, he looks a hairsbreadth from meeting the ferryman."

"Wait, what is this!?"

"KRUM IS ON DEFENSE! Without Lynch to contend with, he has joined the chasers and is trying to dam the Irish attack!" The crowd roared their approval at the bold move, but the Irish, it seemed, had planned for this possibility.

"Connolly has stopped helping Quigley with ze Mediwizard Missiles and is focusing on Krum!" The Russian commentator was right. The handsome Irish beater had left all pretense of civility, and was bashing bludgers at the Bulgarian Seeker every chance he got. Sebastien watched this, and John heard him silently whisper, "Switch."

To his surprise, the boy called Constantine saw Connolly focus again on defending the passes of his team, and Quigley take over in harrying the legendary seeker. John turned to regard his boss. Sebastien met his glance and smiled. "I have watched a few games in my time. The Irish beater's coach is famous for going to every possible game he can around the world. Just three years ago Jozef Wronski was shut down utterly by a cycling beater strategy from the Gimbi Giant-Slayers. Unfortunately, the Ethiopians didn't have strong enough chasers to combat the Grodzisk Goblins without both their beaters, so the Poles won anyway, but it was a big enough deal at the time that I guessed the Irish coach had taught his boys the trick." John nodded, a newfound respect for his employer. He wasn't impressed by the memory of one Quidditch game, but by the ability to click the proper pieces together and make the deduction that Mr. Delacour had.

"And Lynch rejoins the game, brought back from the edge of Oblivion by our talented mediwizard team." The Irish cheered at the return of their seeker, and the Bulgarian fans gave polite applause.

The game carried on with a feverish pace, a brilliance from the Irish players who were outflying the Bulgarians at every turn. Soon, it was 130-10, and the Irish defense seemed undefeatable. Ryan had only needed to exert himself six times, and only once in a true display of athletic ability to make a reactionary broom-handle save against a sudden scrabbled shot from Levski.

"Mullet has ze quaffle, she fakes a pass and sends Ivanova sliding."

"She breaks free of the coverage with her unnatural speed. Fakes out Zograf…THAT'S A FOUL!"

"Desperate to prevent yet another mark on his record, Zograf grabs ze back of her broom, and it is all Mullet can do not to fall to ze ground."

"It doesn't seem like the Bulgarians approve of the call." The American was right. The crowd was a living entity, a crimson mass straining at the edges of their seats to rail against the decision. For their part, the Veela cheerleaders wouldn't let their team be penalized for such a 'slight' infraction. Their rage turned physical as their allure burst out and brought silence to an expanding wave of fans and players.

"It seems as if Hassan Mostafa himself has fallen under ze Bulgarian's spell."

"Thankfully we have these booth walls to protect us but…oh no, some are starting to transform."

"At ze very least, zat will be a penalty for 'Improper Use of Magic on a Referee'." With assistance, the referee seemed to come to his senses and the Veela cheerleaders were forced out of the stadium by the Bulgarian coaches and staff before any more problems could arise. Apparently miffed by his embarrassment in front of one-hundred thousand people, Hassan awarded the Irish two penalties instead of one, and Mullet was tossed the quaffle at half field.

"She begins slowly, speeding up now. Flying towards the left hoop, quaffle in hand, her arm cocks back…she doesn't let fly…it's a lob, a hook shot, arcing high…IT'S IN THE HIGH HOOP!"

"A slow but lethal shot from ze chaser. Well taken. She lines up for ze second penalty. She opts for speed this time. Doesn't even feint, takes a straight shot for the right hoop."

"Zograf appears caught by surprise but makes the save. Finally making the beginnings of a case to keep his starting job."

"Zat is his twelfth save of ze game. However, one would not know zat from just checking the score."

Oddly, it was after this save that both sides in the stadium seemed to start cheering together. It wasn't because Zograf had made a save. It wasn't because Mullet had scored a good penalty. It was because Krum had leaned close to his broom and taken off on a wide turn high into the air. He had seen the snitch.

Krum shot through the air at terrific speed, and to the enthralled crowd, he and the trailing Lynch seemed to be moving as slow as molasses. He turned quickly, leaning into a sharp turn, and then a grey blur filled his view. His instincts told him to flinch. He didn't have time to process the thought, he just _did_.

"Quigley with the vicious bludger!"

"Krum flinches out of ze way!"

"Not cleanly, his nose is plastered across his face!" It was true. For all of his near-precognitive reaction, the bludger had still caught the legendary seeker across his nose, and crushed it.

"Lynch is chasing ze snitch!" Taking advantage of his rival's moment of stunned inaction, the Irishman claimed vital distance in his chase. The Irish fans roared in support as their seeker shot through the air, weaving past desperate bludgers from Vulchanov and Volkov, and extended his body for the snitch.

The crowd held its breath.

Time slowed.

The Irishman reached.

"MOTHER OF MORGANNA! IT'S KRUM!" The Bulgarians exploded in a calamitous wave of noise as their own seeker shot over Lynch, spinning on his broom and snatching the snitch from the outstretched fingers of his opponent.

"150 points for ze Bulgarians! They've won…wait…oh how devastating…"

"Unfortunately, it was too late. Mullet, Troy, and Moran had finally reached the vital 160 point lead." The two commentators looked at each other, blinked, and wide grins broke out.

"THE IRISH WIN THE CUP!"

John knew, were it not for the heavy layers of silencing runes and wards erected over and around the stadium, muggles as far as Leicestershire would have heard the atomic detonation of cheering from the Irish. The little leprechaun army danced at a feverish pace, further energizing the already hyper fans into untold levels of jubilation. As the Shamrock Seven gave their victory lap, John looked to the Delacour family. They all seemed happy, smiles and elated cheers sent at the circling players. Fleur, the only one wearing Bulgarian colors, seemed cheerful too. There had been good play from both seekers, and that was what she cared about. He looked then to the stadium as a whole. He was interrupted from his scanning by a little voice, and a tugging grip.

"Can I get Mr. Lynch to sign my jersey?" Gabrielle looked up at him with eyes full of hope. John chuckled, and hoisted her to his shoulders, pointing to the Top Box where the Irish team was gathering to receive the trophy.

"Look, his beaters are holding him up. The crash in the beginning and that final chase took the strength out of him. I don't think he will be giving signatures any time soon." The little Delacour pouted. John smirked.

"How about we make a deal. You don't pout over this, and I'll see if I can get you Victor Krum's signature by the end of the year?" Gabrielle looked at him skeptically.

"Fleur likes Krum! I like Lynch…and Cybèle Peltier!"

"Well little one, it is much easier to get the signature of an Irish or French seeker when you live in France than it is to get the Bulgarian's. Not to mention he is the best in the world." Though it was obvious Gabrielle was going to give in to that sound logic, she still had her pride to take into account, and the youngest Delacour wasn't going down without the last word.

"Fiiine. But I still think Peltier is better than Krum!"

* * *

Salomé had learned quickly from John Constantine...because of John Constantine…that she had to be always alert. So when, in the middle of post-Quidditch revelry, she heard screaming, she didn't think, she just acted. Her wand was in her hand faster than thought, and she was striding out of the Delacour tent to find John escorting Sebastien and the girls towards it. A translucent glittering grey shield surrounded them, and the panicking crowd parted for them. John cancelled the spell when all were within the magical tent, and snapped to attention at the sound of Sebastien's voice.

"John, stay here, protect my family. I have to see if I can help." John nodded, but Gabrielle cried out.

"Papa, please don't leave." Lord Delacour brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I have to, ma biqutte, I am the Chairman of the Department of Arcane Defenses. I have a duty to our people. There are French citizens here, and you will be safe with your Mama, Fleur, John, and Salomé." There were tears rolling down the youngest Delacour's face, but she bit her lip to hide her trembling, and she gave her father one last tight hug.

"Oui papa, stop the bad guys." He smiled at her permission, gave Fleur an equally strong hug and looked at the bodyguard he had hired. John met his glance, and nodded slightly. Sebastien nodded back, then gazed into his wife's eyes. Both smiled, and they shared a deep kiss. Then Lord Delacour drew his wand, and waded into the storm of chaos.

Sebastien shouted orders to the panicked crowd, and did his best to usher them back to the stadium, where the greatest concentration of Aurors would be. In the near distance, dark figures were magically juggling several floating people. As he got closer, he realized the victims were muggles, and the black-clad torturers wore familiar bone-white masks.

_"Everte Statum. Arresto Momentum._" The first spell sent one of the Death-Eaters flipping head over heels into two of his companions, and the second let the muggle land safely. Inadvertently, the two he knocked down like bowling pins were the other two torturers, and they dropped their own victims. "_Accio tent_." One of the massive tents covering the grassy field outside the stadium barreled his way, cloth catching the other two now-falling muggles, and scooping the first into the sliding safety net that passed him and crashed harmlessly into another tent. They were safe.

Sebastien barely had time to cheer the success of the crazy plan before spells were soaring at him. The Chairman blocked three with rapid shields the size of dinner plates, and then side-stepped the last. He quickly shot up pink sparks, alerting any other members of the French Dague Groupe to his position. He doubted any of the British Aurors recognized the sign, but a signal was a signal. He could only hope any people that arrived were allies. Ducking a green spell, he countered with a quartet of piercing hexes, then strode forward into combat.

* * *

Fleur saw the panicking mob. She saw the people running to and fro, seeking safety in their confusion and fear. Most importantly, she saw Jezebel. Jezebel who wasn't going to the Quidditch World Cup because she only ever watched the sport to support Salomé and her dorm at Beauxbatons. Jezebel who claimed she was going to be at home doing her summer assignments. Jezebel who would only ever sneak out if her two friends made her. Yet, surprisingly, impossibly, from their tent three rows from the outer most edge of the campgrounds, Fleur saw her friend running across the open fields towards the tall trees, a small crowd of dark-cloaked people following her and a boy she didn't know. Even from this distance, she could recognize Jezebel's awkward gait. The shorter girl wasn't known for her athleticism. Surprisingly, Apolline noticed too.

"Is that Jezebel?" She asked, and seeing her daughters mute nod, she turned to John. "John, please go and bring Jezebel and her companion back to us." John looked at her for several long seconds, and it almost seemed as if an entire unspoken conversation occurred in those few moments. Apolline smiled.

"I was trained by my mother and her best friend in the dueling circuit. I can hold this tent. Not to mention I will be aided by the wards both you and the Department of Arcane Defenses added." Seeing his continued inaction, she added, "And don't think I haven't noticed what you and Salomé have been up to each morning. I dare say any who would dare attack this tent will end up faring far worse than we will." Fleur shot her friend a glance that left no question that there would be a detailed interrogation soon, but John didn't notice. Instead, he nodded to Apolline, and strode back out into the sea of burning tents and stampeding people, and towards the tree-line.

* * *

John stalked towards where the dark figures had gone, wand in hand, and his feet making no noise in the cool grass. He glanced up at the sky, and felt the anti-apparation wards in the sky. He smirked, and pulled two pebbles from the soft earth, whispering _portus_, and focusing on the destination in mind. Then he passed into the dark confines of the woods, and he followed the laughter of the dark clad men. After less than a minute, he had caught up, and saw that they had encircled Jezebel and a tanned boy about her age. Oddly, it seemed the men were more focused on the boy than the girl he had been sent to retrieve.

"Mr. Zabini, I would have thought you knew better than to drag others into…family affairs." One of the cloaked figures said, and John could hear his contempt. The bodyguard didn't really want to hear some masked man monologue, so he banished the pebbles at the two encircled youth, and then said the magic word.

"Hey." With a _zzziiip_ sound, the two kids were ported away, leaving the crowd of kidnappers stunned, and turning to John's greeting. He didn't give them a chance to do anything else, they still could pose a threat to his charges.

The first spell was violet, and ripped through three masked men, leaving gaping bleeding gashes. The second spell was a baby blue. It would have been beautiful, had the man it hit not begun to swell. His right arm was the first to burst, gore and pus splattering his associates. His left leg followed in a heartbeat, bringing him crashing to the floor screaming. His head was next to pop, a rapid trill of squelching pops before he grew silent. The third spell Constantine cast conjured a bronze smoky chain from the tip of his grey wand. With a flick of his wrist, John sent it spinning, wrapping around another death eater. By the time the chain began to glow white hot, having long since burned through bubbling flesh and seared a smoky shadow across the would-be-torturer's heart, nine more spells had been cast. Only two came from black clad men.

One had been the purple pallor of a spine ripper, the other a terrifying green. John spun away from the first, and summoned a tree stump in the way of the second. When the oaken shield exploded into fragments, the barefoot boy twisted his chosen focus, and the splinters flew through the air, an angry storm of sharp shards. The brown cloud of death tore two more black hooded figures apart, blood and gore painting the trees red. An intricate flourish, and Constantine brought down a salvo of lightning on two more Death-Eaters, not pausing in his deadly dance. Before one of the cloaked men had time to finish the words of his next curse, John gave his wand a simple flick, and vines sprung from the ground, wrapping themselves around one of the now screaming men. Within seconds, he was a green mummy, only for the plants to retract, leaving behind a desiccated and dry husk that toppled to the ground, shattering into pieces on contact like a rotted branch succumbing to gravity.

By this point, the remaining Death eaters had begun to flee, but they wouldn't even make it to the edge of the anti-apparition wards. A black spear of energy lanced through the side of a masked man's head, and he fell with dust pouring out of his ears and nose. The last three began begging for mercy as tree branches grabbed them by their arms and legs and began pulling. John didn't even spare a glance at them as he turned away and walked out of the dark woods back towards the burning tents. The screams behind him eventually stopped. He was too far away to hear the sound of their dismembered bodies falling from the trees.

* * *

Draco sat next to his father at the long table in the dining room at Malfoy Manor, his father's cane was leaning against the table between them, now more important to his father than ever before. Arrayed around the table were the most elite Death Eaters Voldemort had, with their master sitting calmly at the head of the table and his seneschal, his chief of staff, Antonin Dolohov, seated at the opposite end. The spot was reserved for him, as it allowed the man to leave the meetings to deal with problems as they presented themselves without interrupting any conversations. Dolohov had slaved long and hard enough to earn the Dark Lord's favor, and all knew favor came with rewards.

Draco noted with some satisfaction that he was one of the more put together Death Eaters present. Where most were bleary eyed and still blinking back their sleep, Draco had thought to cast a low-powered cheering charm on himself and taken a single drop of pepper-up potion. He was also awake enough to perceive the nervous tension in the room, as all of the Inner Circle watched their Lord calmly eat his breakfast. Voldemort, for his part, seemed to be ignoring the fear and worry, and cut a slice of ham from his plate, dipped it in some burgundy sauce from a small saucer, and chewed thoughtfully. When he swallowed, the room gulped nervously. At last, the Dark Lord picked his linen napkin from his lap and dabbed the trace of food from the corner of his mouth, and met the assembled eyes.

"We are each aware of our duties, are we not?" Silence filled the room. When Voldemort spoke again, it receded from him to hide where wall met wall. "We each know the price of failure, do we not?" Again, silence flooded like the tide back into the body of the room. And once more, several seconds later, Voldemort again sent the silence fleeing. "The senior Malfoy paid for the failure of a mission I agreed to let him undertake. In so far as he completes the fitting punishment, he shall be forgiven." The Dark lord met the eyes of each of his Inner Circle, and spoke again before the silence could return fully.

"We all know the loyalty of Amycus Carrow, and how she reported her own sister to me for plotting to betray us." Voldemort gestured to the chandelier, suspended by chains, twelve feet above the table. "And we know that Alecto is still paying for her treachery." The assorted men looked down from where their Lord had drawn their gaze, faces pale.

"Now, I find not only our plans in France damaged and in disarray, but also _my_ men sent to strike fear in the attendees of the World Cup." He stood up, wiping his carving knife off on his napkin, and then placing the linen beside his plate. He began to walk around the room, slowly tapping the knife on the backs of each chair. One at a time. Tap. Tap.

"Imagine my surprise, when I, leaving the Championship Game myself, find my way impeded by a panicked mob." Tap. Tap. "It wasn't poorly planned. It wasn't poorly executed. It wasn't even of great irritation to me, I was happy to watch." Tap.

Voldemort stopped behind the chair of Rodolphus Lestrange. The Death Eater felt true fear as something heavy slid over his feet beneath the table. Draco saw the man trying to hide his fear, but he was shaking in front of the Dark Lord, not daring to look over his shoulder at their leader. Voldemort's voice was quiet, but cut through the room like a vile word. "Yet, the plan…failed."

Draco could see Rodolphus sweating, beads of perspiration flowing down the bridge of his nose and dripping on the man's lap. The Dark Lord continued. "Four of my faithful captured, and fourteen dead." He placed the carving knife on the table beside his follower's plate. "Antonin, tell Mr. Lestrange the names of those who were killed."

"Of course, my Lord." Dolohov fished a small red notebook from his inside jacket pocket, flipped quickly to the right page, and glanced at the names. All for show, he had them memorized already. "Ten fresh recruits for whom this was their first outing. The other four are more problematic. Jugson, Gibbon, and Travers were experienced, and will be missed. However, it is Avery, member of this very Circle, who is the greatest loss."

Draco watched Rodolphus' face lose any blood it still held, as if hearing the names made his failure all the more real. Draco watched him gather the breath to protest, but his Lord cut the man off with words that sounded bland to an inexperienced ear, yet held all the menace in the world.

"Lestrange, take this carving knife." The man did so, hand shaking. Voldemort's gaze drifted. "Draco, transfigure this knife into a chisel." Though shocked by the request, the dual courage of the pepper-up potion and the cheering spell still affecting his system made the youngest Malfoy raise his wand without hesitation, and transfigure the knife. The approval he saw in his master's amber eyes made him flush with pleasure and pride. Then Voldemort's focus snapped back to Rodolphus, and Draco was left wanting for more, desperate for approval.

The Dark Lord held out a hand, and his Shadow seemed to materialize with an object familiar to everyone in the room. As Voldemort held the Beater's bat aloft, his Shadow faded back into obscurity. "Lestrange, hold the chisel above your right wrist." The man began to cry, silent in his fear, but tear drops cascaded down his cheeks. He obeyed. Voldemort wandlessly and wordlessly petrified all but his head. "Antonin, how many men did we lose?"

"Fourteen, my Lord."

"Fourteen." The bat came down with sudden force, and struck the top of the chisel with enough force to split the skin of Rodolphus's wrist, and bruised the bone beneath. "One." Again the bat fell. "Two." After three strikes, the tendons severed and the bones cracked. After eight, the bones split. After fourteen, Lestrange's hand was hanging on by mere flesh and nearly powdered bone. The main was howling in pain, his eyes dual waterfalls of pain and suffering. Voldemort leaned in to his circle member, unfroze the man's right arm, and stage-whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"I know you didn't lead the raid by yourself. Raise your arm, and point to the one who helped you…the one who has silently let you take the blame alone." Rodolphus screamed a shrill cry of utter misery, and slowly raised his mauled arm in a pathetic gesture of gesticulation. He held the move for less than a second before his arm fell to the table and he screamed again. His brother opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but a flash of green interrupted him. Draco saw Nagini burst from under the table and knock Rabastan over, fangs ripping his flesh from bone in a bloody dance of death. Though blood splashed far enough to land on him, he didn't wipe it off. None of the Death Eaters dared to.

Rodolphus screamed the entire time his brother was being devoured, and soon his howls were muffled by the snot and mucus that blubbered from his face. Voldemort plucked the chisel from the living Lestrange's frozen fingers, and aimlessly flipped it end over end. "Antonin, select five candidates worthy of filling the Circle's open positions, I will personally select two of them."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Bellatrix, take down the chandelier and wrap it up. We will be having our next meeting at Yaxley's Manor."

"As you wish, my Lord." Voldemort nodded, and then cocked his head.

"Antonin, how many people did you say we lost due to Lestrange's failure? Fourteen?"

"I'm afraid I forgot to account for the death of Rabastan Lestrange. How careless of me. That would be fifteen, my Lord." Voldemort nodded, then slammed the chisel through Rodolphus' wrist with such force it severed the limb and cracked the ebony table.

* * *

**N/B: \Lev Yashin and Frank Brimsek are legendary goalkeepers in real life, and are (in my opinion) the best that Russia and the US ever fielded. However, they did not play Quidditch, but Soccer and Hockey respectively.**

**\**_**Biquette **_**is French for 'lamb' or 'darling', as far as my research goes. If I'm wrong, I'm sure I'll be corrected!**

**\As noted in the header, I was inspired to write this after reading **_**Deprived**_** by the Crimson Lord. In his story, the Bodyguard's hatred is a physical entity. In my story, the Bodyguard doesn't have such a tangible manifestation, so his hatred and anger is bottled up. This chapter shows what happens when he taps into that.**

**\Quick edit the day after posting: Salomé was focused on the chasers, not seekers! (Thanks Jslee102 and Gensplejs for pointing that out)**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks for taking the time to read this. This chapter had my first attempt at a Quidditch game, so tell me what y'all think. I'd also be thrilled to hear what you think of Voldemort and how he handles his court. Creepy? Lame? **

**This, as said last chapter, is the last guaranteed chapter before USMC boot camp begins. I'll try to get another one out ASAP, but y'all might not get an update for three-ish months. Sorry in advance, but I hope this ****massive ****[B/N: Absolute UNIT] of a chapter helps.**

**Stay spooky my friends,**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	6. Where Horrors Hide

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived**_** by The Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer:**** I'm not British, French, Irish, Polish, nor Bulgarian. I am, also, definitely not Portuguese. BUT I AM A MARINE NOW!**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-VI-

Amelia knelt beside a hole in the ground, where a tree may have once been. Now, however, just disturbed earth remained, and the former occupant was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes followed scattered dirt, and estimated where the tree..._no it had been a stump…_.had wound up. She stood, and moved to another spot a dozen feet away, where large fragments of wood stuck out of the ground. _An explosion. Had it blocked a spell?_ Her eyes rose, and she saw the mutilated corpses of two masked men beside small boulders and trees that had been coated with their gore. She looked from those bodies to the rest that lay between the trees, then up to some that were scattered _across _the trees. She frowned. This had been a massacre.

"The counts are in 'Lia! Any guesses?" Amelia rolled her eyes but didn't spare a glance back at her partner.

"I'm not guessing how many dead wizards there are, Sirius." The dark haired man faked a pout.

"Awwww, you're no fun! It's thirteen, by the way. Thirteen dead here, and the French arrested four among the tents." Amelia considered that.

"Do we have any idea how many were here fighting them?"

"Not yet." Sirius scanned the bloody woods. "I'd gamble on at least eight...if it was an ambush…"

"...they would have needed more if it was a prolonged fight, though. So eight on the low side, twice that many in a stand up fight?"

"They were all _marked_ death eaters." Amelia blanched at that revelation.

"_All_ of them?"

"Well," Sirius admitted, "we found enough of the bodies to be sure that at least ten of them had the dark mark, but we couldn't find the left fore-arms of the other three." He looked back to his partner. "I'd say even a dozen Aurors wouldn't have had an easy time of this many of Voldemort's men." Amelia noticed his choice of words.

"You make it sound like he isn't dead." Sirius winced.

"Sorry 'Lia. I know he was destroyed when he attacked the Longbottoms, but after losing James...and Lily...and Har-"

"Auror Bones, Black. We found something." Both Aurors turned to face the newcomer. Her hair was so short that it was barely a shadow across her scalp, and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks were pinpricks of darkness on her pale skin. Her eyes held a vague imitation of life in them, the horrors she had seen forever trapped in their depths. Sirius found himself shivering despite the weather. He had heard what this woman had been through; no one left Azkaban untouched. Noticing her partner's inaction, Amelia stepped forward.

"Detective Court, what is it?" The woman regarded them with her dementor-haunted stare. When she spoke, it was as if she was trying to force out enough volume to be heard, but she only managed a loud whisper.

"We have confirmed the identity of one of the dead. I guessed you would want to know as soon as we made headway, but I wanted to make certain we were not misinforming you. His face, blood, and wand all match. We also found threads of portkey magic, so several individuals fled the fight here." Sirius was the first to respond.

"Well who did you identify?"

"Zane Avery." Sirius sucked air through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair.

"And he had the mark? Damn 'Lia, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight officially serving the Dark Lord's memory." Amelia nodded mutely, knowing this would shake up the Wizengamoot. While it was suspected that more than a few of the wizards and witches who had claimed _imperious _after the first war had been lying, this was the first definitive confirmation.

"You found signs that portkeys were used? Any idea how? I understood there were wards to prevent that very thing in place." Jane Court affixed her gaze to Amelia. She was the leader of the team from the Investigation Department of the Auror's Office. Though having one of the most bland titles one could imagine, the members of her team were as highly regarded as the best hit wizards the Ministry had to offer.

"From our research into magical transportation, the Investigation Department knows of several ways to bypass the intent of portkey wards. The most likely thing that happened here was that there was a 'flicker' portkey used, one that transports an individual or individuals to another area _within_ the wards. Thus they never have to come into conflict with the preventative measures." Jane stopped to take a breath. To the Auror's eyes she appeared nervous, and Amelia suspected she was more of an introvert, uncomfortable with reporting aloud all that she had found. Detective Court, however, continued.

"It also could have been a 'skipping' portkey. That's what we call a portkey that takes its passenger to another portkey placed directly on top of one of the rune stones for the wards. The wizard or witch lands on the wardstone, and in that hairsbreadth of a second, they portkey again, confusing the ward scheme and possibly slipping through." She took another breath, and fought on. "The final option is a blunt force choice. The portkey could have been made by someone with far more power than those who raised the wards. I find this option the least likely."

"Such a thing is possible?" Sirius seemed intrigued.

"Technically. But we would be talking about someone near to Dumbledore in power. After all , the Department of Mysteries set up the wards here."

"I see why you think that unlikely." Sirius said, smirking. Amelia sighed in exasperation, but turned back to the Detective.

"Thank you. Please let us know if you learn anything else." She said, and Jane nodded.

"Will do." She turned and walked back to three of her compatriots who were engaged in a quickfire debate, leaving the two aurors to themselves. There was quiet for a minute, then Sirius broke it.

"So either we have escaped death eaters who can bypass wards, or professional killers who can bypass wards."

"Yep."

"And we have a member of the ruling elite of wizarding Britain dead. One who clearly followed the once Dark Lord and is now committing terrorist actions in his memory."

"Yep."

"Fuck."

"Yep." The two walked back among the corpses, and regarded the scene. The bodies. The trees. The Ministry workers surveying and mapping it all out. The chaos of the living. The tranquility of the dead.

"I don't know about you, 'Lia, but I'm sick of all of this… I'll head back to the office and see if I can figure out what all spells were cast here. Maybe we can profile our killers with them." Amelia nodded in agreement.

"I'll see if I can find any witnesses. The Minister is holding all non-government workers, and all non-players here until we think it's safe for them to leave."

"In other words, he finally pulled his head from the sand and is letting us do our jobs.

"Pretty much."

"Well it's about time. I was beginning to wonder who's side he was on."

"Thank Merlin I wasn't the only one." She saw him opening his mouth for some witty response, so she drove on. "I'll meet you back at the office later today." She began walking towards the tents and camp grounds.

"Hey, Amelia." She turned around, surprised. He never called her by her full first name.

"Stay safe. There could be more in the crowd." She smiled.

"Always."

* * *

The Hogwarts Express was as rambunctious and noisy as always when it pulled out of the station at King's Cross, but in the charmed seclusion of Neville's compartment, all was quiet. Mostly quiet, he admitted to himself, but the occasional sound that his friends made didn't bother him. Whereas he was sitting cross-legged, calmly focused on the small potted plant in his lap and the tight spell work he wove around it, his friends were more formally arrayed around the room. Hannah Abbott sat beside him, legs crossed demurely, and _Elspeth's Spellbook of Advanced Medicines_ opened to a cauterising spell from the 18th century. Seamus Finnigan drowsily attempted to maintain consciousness as he half-way carried on a conversation with Luna, who hung upside-down from the luggage rack, swaying gently side to side, with an edition of the _Quibbler_ right-side-up in her hands.

Finally, sitting beside the spot occupied by Luna's hanging hair was Hannah's friend, Susan. She listened, seemingly attentively, to the odd conversation beside her, but her eyes flickered occasionally to the locked door. As if answering her prayers for rescue, a blurred figure filled the glass door and rapped on the frame. With a yawn, Seamus peered from his spot at the newcomer, but quickly realized the futility. He extracted his wand from his muggle hoodie and tapped the frosted glass once. The door slid open revealing a dark-skinned girl with ink-black hair in tresses to her shoulders. She wore a confident half smirk as she scanned the compartment and settled her eyes on Susan.

"Good morning. Would you mind if I borrowed Susan for a few hours?" Her voice held a touch of a throaty timber that probably drove boys crazy, but Neville was too absorbed in his plant and Seamus was wiping the sleep from his eyes. It was Luna who answered.

"Okie. Be safe you two." She smiled behind her newspaper, "Blithering humdingers may not enjoy being on fast moving transportation, but dillydoos do and they will nest in your hair follicles." The dark-haired girl cocked her head in confusion, but Susan just sighed and stood up.

"Of course, Luna." The redhead slid out of the compartment and closed the door behind her. Seamus yawned.

"Whowuzzat?"

"One of the sixth-years, Rhonda Fladburry. She's the Vice-President of the Duelling Club." It was Hannah this time who, having placed her book to the side, answered. Seamus nodded, and started swinging his legs to get into a more upright position, but Luna reached across the divide and placed her hand on his leg, stopping him. She smiled her dreamy grin.

"You haven't slept much since you got back from the World Cup, you should rest." And as if his strings had been cut, Seamus nodded his way into oblivion. Hannah regarded her wispy friend.

"He stayed with you after the lockdown?"

"Yep. The ministry wasn't letting anyone out of the country after the attack, so he couldn't go home to his family in Ireland. Daddy said he could stay with us at the Rook." Hannah frowned.

"But surely some people were let out?"

"Only politicians, officials, and players. It was realized that they were all accounted for and it was deemed a reasonable assumption that none of them were involved." Hannah grimaced.

"Lucky then I wasn't there." She said. Neville looked up at last from his plant and regarded her.

"I wish I had been."

"Neville, knowing your luck you would have wound up in the thick of it."

"Exactly my point." Neville said, placing his plant on the seat beside him and turning to face his two conscious friends. "Maybe I could have done something to help. The _Prophet _said that eleven people were killed and scores injured. Who knows what help I…"

"Who knows anything?" Luna dropped her newspaper and spun in her hanging position to face him. "You might have been killed." Neville scoffed at that, but raised a hand when Hannah opened her mouth to retort.

"I know, I know. I'm not invincible. Trust me, I know I've been very lucky. What with Lockhart failing to get the stone our first year, all of you being safe when that monster ran around second year, and with the Dementors last year."

"That's not counting the rat man last summer." Luna supplied helpfully. Hannah scowled.

"What rat man?"

"Fair, Luna, but that's not the point." Neville said quickly, trying to blunder through Hannah's annoyed confusion. He could tell she was letting it slide for now, but he would have to tell her eventually. "My _point_ was that I know I'm lucky but I have come up on top of all those fights due more than just good fortune, and I _have _been training all summer for when luck runs out." He fixed his friends with pointed looks. "I can't go running away from danger when people need help." Hannah sighed.

"I know Nev', but we worry about you. Even Seamus does, though Merlin knows he won't admit it." The trio watched their sleeping friend for a minute or two before Neville spoke up again, a wry smile peaking its way through the serious conversation.

"I made sure to add Indian Pennywort and horsetail to my supply this year, in case he blows himself up again…" Hannah matched his grin, the tension broken and her own knowledge of potions and herbology filling in the gaps.

"Burns, blood loss, and nerve damage, eh? What about the organ damage? The nausea and vomiting from internal shock?"

"Well, Coneflower should help with the actual blood integrity and cell adhesion…" Luna shook her head as her friend's conversation turned to topics less familiar to her. Reaching thin fingers down to pluck her newspaper from the floor, she opened it once more to the article she had written about the eternal advance of clover-cricks and their unavoidable, though delayable, strangulation of the planet's termite infestation. She ground her teeth in frustration when she caught an error she had made. _How were wizards supposed to take her reporting seriously if she forgot to tell them that a simple color changing charm on the cricks would temporarily abate their hunger?_ Luna vowed to rectify this in the next issue.

* * *

Ginny tied her boots, numb fingers fighting to not fumble the laces, as rain cascaded outside the quidditch shed. Her hands shook gently, her breath quickened, and she grimaced in pain as she dragged one leather glove over bloody knuckles. Reaching for the second glove, the redhead was interrupted by a low rumbling voice.

"Again?" She didn't raise her head to meet his eyes. He took several quick steps towards her and grabbed her wrist, examining the bloody digits. Victor Krum swept the shed with his eyes, taking in the scattered equipment, the dented lockers, and the red streaks where she had beaten her fists raw on the metal. Though only one word, his question carried a meaning far more vast.

"I _am_ ready to go back."

"Are you?"

"I've done my Occlumency, both organizing and setting up defenses…" Viktor waited on her, letting the silence stretch on. Eventually, she shuddered, sighed, and finished, "Thank you for telling me in private first." He nodded and sat heavily beside her.

"I did not want you losing your calm in the presence of others." Ginny glared at him.

"You didn't believe in me?" He chuckled, and a slight grin cracked his serious demeanor.

"You have a piece of the Dark One in that pretty little head." He ruffled her hair, and she batted his hand away with a mock glare. "I have faith in you. I also had faith that learning of our journey to Hogwarts would hit like a bludger." She huffed in acceptance and he watched her carefully, searching for any sign of the fear, pain, and rage that had led her to wrecking the room. To his relief, her chocolate eyes held none of those miseries. "Heal yourself." Viktor said, stood up, and pushed the door open, allowing the small crowd outside to gain entry to the quidditch lockup.

The youngest Weasley saw her teammates flood in and shook her head. Trust them to be willing to wait patiently on her to access their equipment, but to rush in and then completely ignore her when they actually saw her. Olga Heikkinen and Ingvar Obarin fought over the best beater bat as they always did, both claiming that the single ancient Siberian Larch-wood club still in storage was the ideal tool. Yarek Mokovski and Lorien LaSalle, her fellow starting chasers, located their gear quickly, but paused in the middle of the pathways through the mess of gear to watch the two beaters pummel each other. Both men winced when Olga drove her knee directly into Ingvar's groin. Boqin Chu Hua, quiet as always, slid in between her larger teammates and gathered her helmet and pads while murmuring scolding words about their immaturity.

Ginny smiled faintly and tapped her wand to her knuckles, first to her right fist, then her left. She watched absentmindedly as the flesh knit itself back together and the microscopic cracks in the bones fused. The spell caused her no physical pain, but cast her thoughts briefly back to terrible memories, the very ones that had brought her to tearful rage earlier. Memories of a diary. Memories of a serpent. Memories of ignorant innocence lost.

Snapping herself to the present, Ginny gathered her quidditch gear and finished dressing. Behind her, Ingvar had crawled to his feet and, seeing Olga trying to leave the room with her prize, leapt over a pile of cleaning supplies and Superman punched her. The two crashed into a heap on the deck, and began rolling in pain. Olga's hand held her swollen face and bloody nose, while Ingvar clutched between his legs at his own aggravated injury. Broom in hand, the redhead Weasley darted out of the shed, stepping over her downed friends. She nodded to the rest of the team that was still outside. The reserves stood awkwardly outside the lockup, waiting for the senior team to finish gathering their gear before they could grab their own.

"Ingvar and Olga are at it again." Ginny called over one shoulder as she raced to the railing of the massive vessel and flung herself over the side, mixed cheers and groans following the news. She felt the wind whip in her face as she fell, reveling in the cold clarity as she let go of all her worries. Then, just moments before she would have impacted the grey water, she mounted her broom and shot off parallel to the choppy waves.

She couldn't help but let and grin warm her grim countenance, and soon the freedom of flying obscured any lingering vestiges of pain or fear. It was a temporary fix, she knew, but it was all she had.

* * *

It had been a pleasant morning in southern France for the Delacours and their guests. Salomé had awoke to her normal early morning training, but had managed to get closer to that cursed line in the sand than she had ever before. She had even winged John with a clever trio of spells. He had unceremoniously catapulted her back into the surf immediately thereafter, but that sweet sense of accomplishment kept a grin on her face all morning.

The Lord and Lady of the Château had been the next to wake, and had watched the training with amusement from Sebastien's office windows. Sharing several cups of steaming tea and bantering had become a tradition for the eldest Delacours, and though they would never admit it, they had taken to making bets.

Fleur and Gabrielle had both slept in and only awoke when Apolline floated two glasses of water over their bed and promptly dumped them. Their squeaks of surprise were quickly followed by a chase of their mother through the hallways.

The day was early yet, but what a day it was looking to be. For as they all knew, it was the day students would flood from all over Europe and beyond to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

Salomé had packed her bags the prior night, and so it was with great zeal that she attacked her breakfast, even taking a plate of seconds with her as she followed her friend around the chateau, commenting on Fleur's frenzied packing between each bite of blueberry pancakes.

"Don't forget your wand."

"I am _not_ going to forget my wand."

"Well seeing how it is not on your person, you can understand my concern." Fleur snapped around and saw Salomé had the aforementioned wand behind her ear, and the frustrated Veela yanked it back. Salomé took another bite of pancakes. "Don't give your enemy access to your weapon." Fleur looked at her strangely.

"What are you even… never mind, I do _not_ care." She stuffed more clothes into a bag, then sat on it, crushing it so that it was compact enough to zip shut. "Shouldn't you be packing?"

"I'm done."

"Then quit standing there and _help me_."

"Nope." Salomé gazed long and hard at the last piece of the wonderful blueberry pancakes. She quickly devoured it. "I'll be right back." Fleur didn't turn around, but she yelled back.

"Good. Stay gone! Or maybe bother Gabrielle….or maman...or John even if you really want to be helpful!" Not hearing a response, she huffed and increased her frenzied tempo even more. She made sure to grab her new, pre-shrunk, enchanter's kit for her new elective class, as well as, with a gleam in her eye, a book on offensive spells. Though not part of her curriculum, this would be integral to her plans this year, especially if she was going to prove⎯

"Don't forget your history book." The voice was slightly warbled by food, but Fleur still spun around.

"_Is that your third plate!?_" Salomé looked at the plate in her hands and idly poked at the physical manifestations of perfection.

"Fourth actually. I ate the third on the way here." She showed that there was, in fact, another plate beneath the one Fleur had seen. The silver-haired girl let out a scream of frustration.

John sauntered across the grass lawn outside. He too was ready, though his packing had been done prior to even accepting the contract from the Delacours. Never having unpacked more than the bare minimum each day from the various shrunken bags and trunks in pockets across his body, and then placing it neatly back each night, he had merely had to add a few of his recent purchases to his bags and completed his 'packing' in less than a minute. And so on that morning he found himself patrolling the property when he felt the coin in his pocket shake slightly and grow warm.

"Goldflour. 073448 Henderson." John recognized the identity check.

"Royce. 037662 Archibald." One down.

"Coercion."

"Courage."

"Sitrep." The request for a report was not unexpected, and John was actually surprised that the call hadn't come sooner.

"The principal has come under threat twice. Threats have been disposed of. Moving to Stage 2 at 1100 hours local time."

"List concerns."

"Principal's companion requested training. It has been supplied at a base level."

"Royce is aware that he violates standard operating procedure?" John mentally sighed, and his response was curt.

"It will become impractical to maintain an unimpeded visual cover of principal at Stage 2 and 3. It is believed that even a basically trained female companion could serve as practical security on a near-constant basis."

"Royce could have requested support."

"It would be a waste of an operational asset." There were a few breaths of silence, then a response came.

"OpCom concurs with Royce's assessment. List further concerns." John hadn't expected the Operations Commander to be near enough to his handler for conversing, but it was a welcome surprise indeed when your boss's boss agreed with your decision.

"It is believed that the principal will volunteer for the Tournament in violation of agreement. Please advise."

"Advisory request logged. List further concerns."

"No further concerns."

"Understood, Royce. Goldflour out." The coin cooled as the connection was cut. Not too soon either. He heard footsteps, bare feet on grass, approaching. He turned, and slipping the coin back in his pocket, he inclined his head to Lady Delacour.

"Madame."

"Walk with me John." He did, and the odd pair began a slow circle of the grounds. Birds sang from the trees, the trees swayed gently in the wind, and the wind gently slid in from the Mediterranean in an amalgam of nature's simple beauty. The two moved in a respectful silence that let the world around them run its symphony unimpeded. Eventually, however, the sounds of the sea were muted enough by the chateau that the harmony was broken, and at last Apolline spoke.

"John, what do you think of your mission." She watched him as she said this, and tried to gauge his reaction. "I don't want some professional formality for an answer, I want to know what thoughts are burning behind those glasses."

"Madame, I think that you have two beautiful daughters who have the misfortune of living in a world of greedy and vile people who will take advantage of them. I think that their friends, Salomé and Jezebel are subject to similar biases, and that is a wretched thing." He turned his mirror-veiled eyes to meet hers. "And I think that is why you have hired me. Because I am not a good man who can merely shield them from the vile people they will meet. I am, instead, an unbiased weapon that will make even the balance of the world around them. I am a Sentinel, not a saint."

"Why should I not seek a saint?"

"Living saints are just idols who have yet to be martyred. Only a fool would hire a martyr for a guard, and you and your husband are not fools."

"Fancy words for merely a bodyguard." The beautiful woman gave a devastatingly coy grin. "Why are you training Salomé then? If you, as you say, are not a good man."

"Practicality, Mme. Delacour. She will be able to do things I will not." Apolline raised an eyebrow.

"And what could a school girl do that a multi-million-dollar killer can't?"

"Go with your daughter into the restroom." Apolline's sudden bout of laughter was divine song, and the birds all around joined in the beautiful music.

The Delacours, Salomé, and John all met outside the front entrance to their chateau, Fleur, Gabrielle, and Salomé with their bags arrayed in front of them, and John waiting patiently to the side. Apolline, as she insisted on doing before every school year, gave each one a huge hug and went over everything that they needed, making sure everyone was packed appropriately. As always, her final check bore fruit, as Gabrielle had neglected to pack her running shoes (though she had yet to use them, Apolline and Sebastien insisted that she should have them in case she changed her mind about non-mandatory exercise), Fleur had forgotten her History textbook, and Salomé had realized that she had not purchased the wand-holster she had meant to.

John had done his own check as well, the only thing he had needed to grab that he had originally chosen not to was a fragment from the broken Caesar statue. To the bodyguard's surprise, Sebastien had elected to leave the statue broken, as a permanent reminder to the occupants to never assume the imperviousness of their sanctuary.

"Alright, we have everything now? Bon. Je vous aime. Stay safe." Apolline finished hugging Gabrielle, and wiped a tear from her cheek. Each year, she tried to keep herself composed, and each year, without fail, she still cried. Such was the curse of motherhood. She shrunk all the childrens' bags, and they all filled their pockets. Sebastien produced the portkey that would take them to Beauxbatons, a piece of worn rope, and the students gathered around. He smirked.

"Fleur, would you like to say it?" John was surprised at the exasperated sigh she produced, and the completely opposite reaction from Gabrielle, a giggle of amusement.

"Papa, I was two. Must we do this _every year?_"

"Oui." Apolline insisted. "It was cute."

"It is just a childish mispronunciation."

"C'est vrai. That's true. However, it is a cute one, and as your father I will not let you live it down." Fleur clenched her teeth in frustration.

"Je Tem Bras." She said the butchering of 'I kiss you', her cheeks crimson as the portkey activated with a _zziipp_.

They all appeared on a grassy hill bordered behind them by a gorgeous forest, and more hills in front of them. Not a hundred meters distant was an ivy-covered stone archway in a low stone wall that snaked its way across the countryside. Through the gate trailed a simple cobblestone path that ended at an expansive hamlet of buildings arrayed around a breathtaking villa. Serving as a backdrop to the picturesque campus were the Pyrenees mountains, snowcapped and jaw-dropping.

John had done his research on Beauxbatons, of course. Therefore, he knew that the current location of the school had moved in the early 1800's following the discovery of the school by muggles. Though the muggles had initially thought it an old templar convent, they had soon realized the roman nature of the Villa, and had become understandably more emphatic with their exploration. Though the original Villa of Beauxbatons was now a tourist attraction known as the Villa gallo-romaine de Montmaurin, mages from across Europe, from Ramon Llull, to John Dee, to the Flamels, to Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin all pitched in to help magically replicate the original campus at its new location, south of Bethmale Lake in the French Pyrenees. Even Gilles de Rois, psychopath and criminal though he was, was given temporary amnesty from the ICW to help his former school.

A further realized benefit to moving the school was, in addition to being in a less accessible location for muggles, was it was even closer to France's only magical animal reserve, allowing ludicrously easy access for students wishing to study magical creatures. Just as John had been reminding himself of this fact, a roar muffled by distance echoed from the mountain peaks as a large shape soared through the Pyrenees. Gabrielle giggled, and without even turning to the rest of them, took off sprinting towards the school.

"Last one to the gate gets eaten by the dragon!" The other kids looked at each other. Salomé smirked then, shoving Fleur, she rocketed off after the youngest Delacour. Fleur spluttered, then followed, yelling after her traitorous friend. Jezebel looked at John.

"I'm not running." She said with an obviously feigned snort of self-importance. Her smile further helped give her joke away. John, however, nodded sagely.

"Most unbecoming, indeed, for a lady of your mature age to be carrying on like the children." He said it with such a straight face that she could not help but snicker. He reached one arm out. "My Lady, together shall we?" She nodded, adopting a mask of seriousness.

"Indeed we shall. And should we be targeted by that monster in the mountains?" She took his arm and they began walking after their companions.  
"I shall give my life in a valiant attempt to save you." She nodded, though a smile tested her mask. Then, suddenly, she frowned.

"An _attempt_ to save me?" It was John's turn to nod.

"I'm afraid I shall fail. Shakespearean, indeed, shall be our demise." She smacked him in the arm.

"Imbécile!"

* * *

When Amelia backed through the door to the office she shared with Sirius, a paper cup of coffee in each hand, she hadn't been expecting to find her partner huddled amongst a semi-circle of open books in one corner, with more books covering his desk and individual sheets of paper floating from pile to pile around the small room. Sighing, the redhead ducked a floating quill that was taking hurried notes on a parchment mid-flight, and stepped her way across the minefield to the clearly sleep-deprived man. His hair was not in its usual neat tresses, his leather jacket was slung haphazardly over his chair, and even in the poorly lit room, she could see the swollen black circles under his eyes.

"You never went home Friday, did you?" She asked, handing him one of the cups. Sirius rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, then took the proffered gift. He inhaled deeply, grinning despite his fatigue.

"No cream, no sugar, as black as possible. Might as well be family!" He quipped, taking a sip from the container, and wincing slightly as the caffeine began to combat both his exhaustion and slight inebriation.

"I'll take that as a no." Amelia sighed, pulled up her chair, and looked down at her partner and the mess surrounding him. She too took a sip of the hot coffee, mentally thanking the muggle-born father and son who had decided to open the coffee shop in Diagon Alley right beside the Floo to the Ministry. Were it not for the brew, she didn't think she could survive her co-workers puns, nor the other stressors he so often brought. "I take it you spent the whole weekend trying to find what those spells were?"

"All but fucking one." Sirius growled, then took another sip of his coffee to ease his nerves and gave an apologetic nod to his compatriot. "I've combed all the books I have stored away, twice now mind you. I think I know what they all were, all except for one." He gestured to the eight books arranged around him. "If I'm right, that one should be somewhere in these, but..." He trailed off, looking helplessly at the paper wasteland.

"Sirius. You've been at this for, what is it now, sixty hours? More? You need a break."

"I've taken breaks. Took a few for the loo, two for food, and the rest to try and figure out who exactly the killers were." He gestured to the trash can in the corner, which due to his laziness to _evanesce_ the remnants of his meals, held the proof of his claims. Several boxes of take out. Amelia surveyed the garbage with a keen eye, then turned back to look at Sirius.

"Stretch your legs, I'll take over for a bit." Sirius opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head slowly, and tapped her wand in its holster. "Don't bullshit with me, we both know where Voldemort went after the Potter's. I have just as much reason to be pulling three-nighters to find out who the hell killed death eaters and then didn't stay to take credit. Those are the kinds of people we need to finally put an end to those terrorist bastards once and for all." The white sheep of the Black family watched his partner's face flush slightly in her passion, and her dark eyes narrow. He decided discretion was the better part of valor.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, 'Lia, I'm moving." He slowly stood up, swaying slightly as spots filled his vision, and staggered over to his chair, sagging gladly into its soft embrace. Amelia sat cross-legged where he had been, and skimmed the array of books in front of her.

"I'm going to pretend that there isn't a first edition copy of _Tessalic Horrors _right next to the autobiography of Benicio Bonavenna."

"As if a book on arcane blood rituals wouldn't belong next to the torturer's choice compendium. The Portuguese Inquisitor would be proud."

"I don't give a damn if Cardinal Bonavenna would be proud, he's not the one who would be locking your ass in Azkaban for even _touching_ that book." As she spoke, Amelia carefully levitated the offending book over to the side of the office, where Sirius' open trunk sat, and dropped it in. Her focus then snapped back to the seven remaining texts around her, and began flipping through them. "Still sneaking into the Family Manor to pilfer books and artifacts?" Sirius huffed in response. Then, after another longer sip from the still steaming cup, he elaborated.

"Most weeks I go once or twice. I change up the days, and every now and then skip a week or two. I'm already all but an enemy of the family, no reason for extra confrontation. Plus, I only just found out that they recognized Andy's marriage a few _years_ ago—"

"Huh."

"That's what I was thinking! Who would have thought the pureblooded Blacks would ever recognize their daughter's marriage with a muggle, much less—"

"Not that. I was commenting on this." Amelia pointed to something Sirius had underlined in one of the books. Though miffed that he had been interrupted, the dark-haired man leaned down to look closer and attempt to read the book upside down. "You think that dust-for-brains was hit by an Egyptian construction spell?" Sirius scratched idly behind one ear as he recalled his reasoning.

"Yeah. Not entirely certain on that one, but it makes sense. _Raspaga prasina_. Originally Macedonian, but like Cleopatra, it wound up in Egypt. Because it was originally meant to turn basalt and even granite into chunks, and then from chunks to gravel, when it was used on the much softer Sandstone of northern Africa, it would crumble to stone to dust."

"So the Death Eater's brain was dusted by a two-ish thousand-year-old spell?" Amelia mused. She pointed to another marking. "The _Flight of a Thousand Wooden Birds_? That's a spell name?" Sirius nodded, not needing to consult the text.

"Yep. Well, the English translation at least. Requires a quick mind and an even quicker wand to cast. A lot of Chinese spells have the same wand movements as you would use to write the spell name with ink and quill. Something about the fact that they have separate characters for most words or names, so magic recognizes the word as the thing itself. Their spells require a lot of willpower though, wizards and witches have to mentally force the spell's target to obey their desires." Amelia ran her fingers over the page, reading along as he spoke.

"Is that because it's a conjuration spell?"

"More or less. It's like a conjuration mixed with the _Oppugno _Jinx. Taking something that already exists, then manipulating it. I think it is what was used to shred those two corpses near the large boulder…" A knock at the still-open door interrupted his explanation, and the two Aurors shot to their feet.

"Chief Scrimgeour." Sirius glanced at his rumpled clothing and cast a few quick charms to straighten his messy appearance to a semblance of professional formality. Amelia did the same for the room. The Chief of the Auror Department looked on with one eyebrow slightly cocked, waited for his subordinates to finish their rushed cleaning, and then spoke when they both stood before him, attentive. As always, he jumped straight to the point for his early visit.

"The Minister of Magic is being pressured by the Magical Governments of Bulgaria, Ireland, France, and a dozen more members of the ICW to deal with the Death Eaters once and for all. The attack on the World Cup has left them rattled." Scrimgeour took a brief pause to gauge the attentiveness of his audience, and sufficiently satisfied, he continued.

"To that end, the Minister has seen fit to create a task force to deal with the problem. He is further concerned by our ability to administer justice after it was noted that several of the terrorists killed at the Cup had been purebloods who had claimed _imperious_ at the trials after the Dark Lord's demise. To alleviate his fears, I volunteered to assign two Aurors to his task force that I knew could be trusted. Two purebloods who I can be certain are not compromised, and are some of the finest duelists in my department." Amelia flushed slightly at the compliment, and saw Sirius grinning in her peripheral vision. The Head of the Aurors produced two metal badges; each was a metal eye above the Ministry's 'M', both pierced vertically by a single wand. He looked over the two as they examined the gift.

"These denote your position as part of the Minister's new Huntsmen. You will work with the other branches of our Government as you see fit, and even with certain sections of other nations' Law Enforcement." Sirius' grin grew wider, any trace of his fatigue gone as he grew giddy at the thought. "However, the Minister has decided that you two must work closely with the Hit Wizards, as he wants them on the scene in any case where you believe there will be open combat. To ensure a seamless relationship between our two branches of the DMLE, I have elected to permit a member of the Department of Mysteries to lead the Task Force."

Amelia's eyes widened slightly. To her knowledge, a coordinated operation between the Hit Wizards, Aurors, and the Department of Mysteries had never been smoothly executed in the history of the Ministry of Magic. To attempt one now was a great gamble on behalf of the Minister. Chief Scrimgeour stepped out of the doorway, and inclined his head slightly.

"I would therefore like to introduce the individual in charge of this Task Force, and your new immediate superior for the foreseeable future." The Head of Department raised one hand in introduction as a man walked into the office. He was tall, wore an immaculate charcoal suit under a navy blue robe, and had his hair cut short and styled formally. A barely-there stubble greyed his cheeks and his amber eyes burned with intensity. He walked with the poise and presence of a king, but the lethal grace of a man skilled in the shedding of blood. In the first moments of seeing him, Sirius Black held no doubts; this was the most dangerous man he had ever met.

"Ms. Bones, Mr. Black, this is the representative of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Tom Riddle."

* * *

**N/B: \Fun fact: Jane Court is not actually an OC. Though only canon due to her appearance in the video game, Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery, she was a witch who was sentenced to Azkaban for an unknown reason, but not sentenced for life. Anything past this, though, I have made up. **

**\In regards to the previous NB, I endeavor to use canon characters as much as feasible in my stories. Sometimes, however, there is a gap in Canon, or I feel an unknown figure would mesh better.**

**\I know that for every question about the history of my AU that Neville's section answers, it opens up one or two more. Sorry, not sorry! :)**

**\Beauxbatons has, canonically, a rather lacking history and description. Everything I added is based on a real Villa in southwest France!**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Well, at long last, I have completed two of the three stage of USMC training, and am now a Marine. [Insert excited scream.] Unfortunately, I am slightly delayed with stage three due to the villainous Covid-19. Fortunately, I will have plenty of time to write now! You can expect me to be back on regular schedule, if not an expedited one!**

**Also, first, please tell me what you think of the new POV's, and especially about if I treated Luna well. It is truly difficult for me to write her, but if she is acceptable to y'all, then I shall war on. Hopefully with time she will improve!**

**Second, I hope y'all loved the surprise at the end! I'm sure it answers a bunch of questions, but like Neville's bit, raises a hell of a lot more! [Insert evil laughter.]**

**Thirdly, with Covid doing its best to bring us down and cause pain, if any of y'all need someone to pray for you or something/someone in your lives, let me know, and my boyfriend and I will pray for you. We can also pass the prayer (keeping you anonymous of course) on to our close friends and family for further outreach.**

**Finally, y'all are wonderful as always, and I don't deserve all the patience and love y'all give.**

**[With ALL the love we can give.]**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	7. Revelations

**Relevant Inspiration:**

_**Deprived **_**by The Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer:** **I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, nor Indian.**

**A/N****: I apparently magic-ed Jezebel into the final scene with the Delacours in Chapter 6. The Delacours, Salomé, and John portkeyed from the Chateau to Beauxbatons, yet Jezebel was somehow with them when Gabrielle began the race for the gate...being the lazy post-posting-editor that I am, I shall overlook this error...you should too….if you're feeling polite.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Tom Riddle stepped forward and took Amelia's proffered hand and, maintaining eye contact, bowed to brush his lips across her knuckles. "It is a pleasure, Ms. Bones." Even as he turned towards Sirius, his eye contact lingered for an intense breath more than courtesy, before the piercing gaze locked onto the other Auror. He took Sirius' hand and shook it formally, but firmly. "And Mr. Black, I have heard much of your accomplishments."

"Understated, I'm sure." The outcast of the Black family smirked, his cocky attitude falling back into place, a shield against appraisal. A small smile played at the corner of the Unspeakable's mouth, and then he turned to the Chief of Aurors.

"Thank you, Chief Scrimgeour, for the introduction, I can take it from here." The dour older man nodded, turned, and strode to his office, leaving the trio in momentary silence. Riddle, however, resumed his visual scan of his two new co-workers, as they did the same. Then, after a few terse seconds, he spoke.

"As they say, 'The devil makes work for idle hands.' Shall we get to it?" The two Aurors nodded. "Very well." His eyes left theirs and scanned the room. He took in the piled books, the trunk against one wall, and the small groups of papers and quills across the workspace. "I seem to have interrupted you, where are we on the World Cup affair?" Amelia cleared her throat.

"We have almost half of the dead identified, and most of the spells used...er, how much do you know already?"

"I am aware that the revelries after the world cup were attacked by masked wizards. I am aware that a group of fourteen apparent death-eaters were found slaughtered in the woods near the Quidditch World Cup campgrounds, that four more were captured among the tents by members of the french Dague Group and the French Minister of Arcane Defenses, and that we currently have no clues as to the identities of the killers. I am finally aware that the death-eaters were the perpetrators of the attack on the campgrounds, but it is still unknown who their leader was, nor their total numbers."

"We only have two in custody, the other two were ceded to the French when their identities were uncovered. Both were natives of our neighbors across the strait." Tom considered that, then backtracked.

"Very well. Back to our immediate response to this situation, what did I interrupt? You said something about spells?"

"Yes." Amelia spoke quickly, flushing. Then, frustrated with her oddly rampant emotions, she calmed herself down as the vibrant orange eyes focused on her. "We believe we have discovered what most of the spells used to kill the death-eaters in the woods were. We hoped that knowing them might help point towards who they fought."

"But…" Riddle prompted, sensing more.

"But, if we are right, the spells came from cultures and countries across the globe."

"And not even from the same millennia." Sirius added. "Some predate even Greece's glory days, while some, like Bathory's Blade, were created as recently as the 16th Century." Riddle looked back to the other man.

"You know your curses, Mr. Black. Would I be safe to assume that the copy of _Stygian Spells _is yours?" Two pairs of eyes flicked two where the man indicated, then to each other, then back to orange depths. Amelia felt her chest tighten. In her surprise at noticing _Tessalic Horrors_, she had missed the less infamous, but no less regulated tome. To her surprise, and relief, Tom's next words held not the arresting accusation she had expected. "A lackluster novel, in my opinion, save for the catalog of spells in chapter eighteen. I believe you would find Drach Biela's _A Study of Once-Forgotten Counter-Curses and the Reasons for their Creation_ a surprisingly easy read, and far more useful." Sirius found his eyes widening, and a grin spread across his enthusiastic countenance.

"I'll make sure to check it out!" Tom twisted one corner of his mouth in a wry grin, but then went back to business.

"What spells are you having trouble with?" Sirius waved his wand, muttered a quick spell, and a few sheets of paper wormed their way out of several piles to float before the trio. On each piece was a transcribed description of the dead back at the World Cup, from their physical description and name, to the details of their injuries. With another wave, three sheets remained while the rest formed a neat pile on the closest corner of Amelia's desk.

"Of these three, we think the first is an old Egyptian spell, the other is a Chinese one, but we have no clue on the third." She said, gesturing to the respective sheets. Riddle scanned the descriptions, then closed his eyes and stood stalk still. He seemed to stop breathing even for a few long seconds, then his hand raised to point to the first paper.

"It wasn't a masonry spell. If it had been, the victim's skull would have been far more pulverized. As it was, the brain was powdered, but the skull was only slightly cracked and flaky." The Unspeakable eyes were flickering behind closed lids, as if he was reading a book only he could see. "I find it far more likely that he was struck by the '_iibead almiah_ curse. Libyan, very old, but used most frequently by the Barbary Pirates. The curse expels moisture from someone where it hits, which would explain the variance between the damage to the skull and brain.

"Whereas our brains are composed of more than seventy percent water, our bones are a mere thirty percent." Sirius seemed to take this explanation stride, frowning only at his own error in identifying the spell. Amelia however, narrowed her eyes at the science behind his diagnosis. That had been...very muggle...in its style. And taking in the ring on his finger, a family ring, she had assumed him a pureblood.

"As for the Chinese spell, I would agree with your assessment based on the descriptions of the scene." Riddle continued, then added thoughtfully, "I wish I had been able to see it in person." He waved away the musing. "That is besides the point. Let's see about this final spell." Sirius perked up.

"Yeah, it tore through three of the wankers-" Amelia smacked him in the back of his head. "Ow. It even cut down a tree that had been behind them and carved a furrow into the boulder that the two victims of the Chinese spell died beside." He rubbed the back of his head and glared at his partner. "I looked through just about every book I have, and there are not many dark cutting spells that can do that much damage, even if overcharged. None of those fit the bill either." Riddle nodded in agreement.

"I concur. However, did you consider that it may not have been a cutting curse?" The scion of the Black family clicked his tongue in thought.

"Sorta...well I did, but I didn't come up with any other alternatives."

"Could one of the attackers have conjured something and banished it? They could have _evanesced_-" Amelia began, but was interrupted.

"A possibility, if the damage to the terrain had not occurred in a straight line. Anything conjured would have ricocheted off the boulder after losing momentum through the tree." Riddle said, eyes still flitting back and forth, in his own mental world. Amelia bit her lip, joining her partner in considering the options. Sirius came up with the next one.

"A _deprimo_ focused into a line could have done it?" Riddle's eyes stopped flickering as he considered it, eyes still closed.

"Was the earth around the boulder disturbed? Had it shifted at all from where it lay?" Amelia considered this, eyes drifting as she too mentally distanced herself from her body, instead reviewing the scene of the slaughter in her memory.

"No, I don't think...no, it definitely was not." She said, certain. Riddle nodded, then his eyes resumed their movement.

"Then it couldn't have been a modified _deprimo_. The boulder would have at least broken its grip with the ground and shifted from a pushing spell of that power." Sirius nodded, acknowledging the point. They spent a few more minutes bouncing ideas off each other, however, they all had to admit, the ideas were becoming weaker and weaker. Then, suddenly, two things happened at once. Riddle's eyes stopped flitting, he stood slightly straighter, and just as his mouth began to open in a revelatory remark, there was a knock on the frame of the open door. Both Aurors and the Unspeakable spun to face the arrival, and were greeted with the familiar haunted eyes and shaven head of Detective Court.

"Good morning Auror Bones, Black…" Her throaty whisper faded as she stared at an unfamiliar face. Riddle stepped forward, the surprise gone from his face, and a diplomat's calm visage donned.

"Good morning Detective, I am Unspeakable Tom Riddle, the head of the new Huntsmen Team to which both of these aurors, as well as the World Cup Case, have been attached." She took his proffered hand hesitantly, but he sensed her discomfort, and only shook it formally before letting go. A flicker of relief crossed her features.

"In that case, I suppose I am reporting to you now. We have had several breaks in the case, and as per standard operating procedures, I am to inform you immediately of them." Riddle nodded, no hint of frustration at her over-the-top formality.

"Very well, the report, if you will." Court nodded, and took a breath.

"First, we finished our battery of _priori_ _incantatem_ across all the confiscated wands, as well as our AAPs…that is, our Angular Analysis Protocols."

"By factoring in the position of the corpses, their wands, and disturbances in the natural landscape, you estimate how the conflict occurred." Riddle prompted, a subtler attempt to skip any detailed explanation than Sirius would have made, Amelia noticed. The AAP was new protocol for the Department, and she doubted her partner had bothered to read the notice.

"Exactly." The detective continued. "We found rather...well, frankly startling results. Between the fourteen dead wizards, we estimate that only two offensive spells were cast."

"That's not a fight, that's an ambush!" Sirius' eyes were wide. "Lia, this means that it was a larger group-"

"Not quite Mr. Black." Court interrupted. All eyes moved back to meet hers and she once more had to fight anxiety to keep speaking, but she warred on. "That brings us to the second revelation. All of their movement orbited or fractured out from on one point of focus." She held the searing gaze of the Unspeakable. "Sir, there was only one attacker."

"That's not an ambush, Sirius, that's a slaughter."

"Lia, there's no way that-" But again, he was cut off again, this time by Riddle.

"Continue, Detective." She took another breath.

"In addition to these discoveries, my team also positively identified the rest of the dead. All purebloods, several of which were charged after the Dark Lord's death, plead _Imperius_, and were let free." Riddle's burning eyes narrowed.

"Anything else?"

"Um, yes, actually. We believe there were two people who portkeyed out of the 'slaughter', and we tracked where the portkey went."

"Where?"

"It was a flicker portkey, to a tent among the campgrounds. Though all the tents have been picked up, we have it narrowed down to 10 square meters." Riddle nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was that of a general, an unignorable authority.

"Good, see if you can acquire a map of the tents from the reservation list, then meet me at the campgrounds."

"Yes sir." Court hastily left the office. The Unspeakable turned to his coworkers.

"I'm going to look at the scene in person, this puzzle might make more sense if I can see where it happened. Give the detainees a few more hours to stew, then interrogate them. Find out what they know." Sirius frowned.

"We have already-"

"Do it again. Tell them about their friends, lets see if they open up now that they know they are being hunted and we might be their only chance at survival." It was Amelia's turn to frown.

"I know they were all killed, but how do we know it was a targeted hunting?"

"We don't, but neither do they." And with that, Riddle strode out of the Auror department, and towards the apparation point. He thought back to his recognition of the spell, a revelation that had been muted by the Detective's arrival. The pieces were beginning to click together in the jigsaw, forming a picture that he had not expected.

* * *

Gabrielle, carried by the swift legs of a child powered by excited joy, won easily. It had to be said that Salomé came close to catching up with the young girl, however, a tripping jinx from the lagging Fleur sent her sprawling in the grass. As for John and Jezebel, no Shakespearean tragedy occured, and they made it safely to the gates. Though at their languid pace, it was several minutes after even the bickering red-faced older girls had made it before the two caught up. And, indeed, it was better that they had taken their time, for a giantess approached.

"Ah...Madame Maxime...this is...this…" Fleur attempted, but she was still out of breath from the jinx filled race. Salomé, only slightly less spent, had the grace to not even attempt to speak. Jezebel rolled her eyes.

"Bonjour, Madame." Her greeting came with a flourishing curtsy. "Fleur, Salomé, and I are pleased to escort Mademoiselle Gabrielle Delacour and Monsieur John Constantine to Beauxbatons for the first time." She spoke surprisingly succinctly, though John figured that her exposure to a figure of great authority made her revert to her more formal, Pure-blooded education. The Headmistress of Beauxbatons looked down her nose at her pupils.

"Indeed. Well, if there was une préfète in front of me, I would surely inform that girl that, as a student with a position of authority and...responsibility, she and her returning friends should escort a new first-year to the check-in station." Fleur's face grew even more crimson as she remembered her job as a prefect and was further embarrassed by her own breach of etiquette.

"On a separate matter, I would ask our new...exchange student to please come with me. There has been a problem with his paperwork, one that only a brief discussion should fix." Her eyes fixed on John, and there was silence for a moment before she turned back to Fleur. "There is, as I thought, une préfète here, is there not?" Fleur blinked, and flushed again.

"Ah oui, madame. Oui, there is. Uh..merci...bonne journée." With that, Fleur quickly spelled herself and Salomé free of grass stains, adding a whispered stinging hex at her friend in revenge. Then the four girls gave quick but formal curtsies, and hurried off, leaving John with the giantess.

* * *

Madame Maxime did not permit the conversation to continue until they were in her office, a looming room built for someone of her stature, having the side effect of cowing anyone who met with her. John recognized the power play for what it was, but didn't do anything to counter it. He sat in a chair slightly too tall for him, remaining relaxed and waiting for her to open the conversation. After a sip from a goblet of wine, she did.

"Monsieur...Constantine. Imagine my surprise when the Minister of Arcane Defenses, and an old acquaintance of mine, informs me that his daughter will be escorted by a bodyguard this year." She looked him up and down with a ripping gaze. "And a boy arrives with her instead." John ignored the blatant jab.

"Yes, madame."

"Are you an exchange student, as Mademoiselle Voller, to my surprise, suggested? Or are you a bodyguard?"

"Yes, madame. Both." Her glare turned viperous.

"Ignoring the fact that you are a child, and therefore decidedly a foolish choice for a bodyguard, as Headmistress of this Academy, I am certain you are not an exchange student. As Headmistress, it is one of my duties to sign off on every student, every year. I have never signed a paper for a 'John Constantine'." So she wanted to play aggressively, John mused. No, she wanted to goad him.

"Madame, to answer your first concern, I am well trained. Very. Well. Trained." He did not flinch from her gaze. "I am, also, very...very studied in the workings of your Academy. I am certain that should you choose to recognize me as an exchange student, there is much I can learn from your accomplished staff. That said, I am further certain that in my role as a bodyguard for Mademoiselle Delacour, there is no one in these facilities that could harm an errant string on her coat without my permitting it." He said it without any trace of bravado, merely calm certainty.

"If you do not believe me, Madame, you can ask for the proper ministry clearance to read my ICW MAB scores. Should you receive the clearance and not be satisfied, or are unable to gain clearance and therefore are unsatisfied, I am more than happy to fight any and every instructor you choose at this school in front of you." He removed his identity card from a pocket, and placed it on the desk. "I believe it would not be as one sided as you think." She met his mirrored eyes.

She saw the real play he had made. She had goaded him, and he had upped the ante. Added more bait to the playing field. If she lost her calm at his purposeful insolence, she made herself a flustered woman unable to control a boy a fraction of her age. If she questioned his choice to leave his sunglasses on, she again acknowledged the lack of authority she exuded over him. If she reached across the table to grab the card, she was physically showing herself controlled by his actions. It was a clever play, she had to admit. She was still unconvinced of his martial prowess, but his conversational acumen was...impressive. It was a grudging admittance, even in the private recesses of her mind.

"Monsieur Constantine…" A glance brought her attention momentarily to two characters on one corner of his card. The letter 'F', and the number '4' blazed in a large enough font to recognize at this distance. F4? Function Four? She reconsidered what she had been about to say. "...let us hypothesize. _If_ I were to believe you capable of protecting one of my students to a degree worth permitting you to stay at this school, and _if _I were to pass you off as an exchange student, where would you be from? Why would I have made such a sudden, and last moment change to the directory?" John smiled to himself at the olive branch. The branch was sharpened, but it had been offered. He wasn't rude by nature, so he accepted her graceful, veiled truce.

"I am a student at the College Cú Chulainn on the slopes of Slieve Foy in Cuaille, Ireland. Hearing of the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, and discovering that I had been searching for a magical school to exchange with, you quickly accepted me. You were, of course, hoping that a student of one of the Eight Great Colleges of Dueling would help bolster your team in the tournament." The Headmistress raised one delicate eyebrow.

"That would be very biased and unfair to other students in the exchange programs of other schools, would it not." John's smile was feral.

"Of course, but it is known that Beauxbatons' duelling program is not what it once was. Factor that in with the ancient rivalry with Hogwarts, and the rumors that they have several students on international Under 18 and even Under 21 teams, and suddenly you have a reason that neither the Ministry, nor the Parents will malign you for." Madame Maxime regarded the youth with grudging respect. All of those points were true. She sighed, and took another sip of wine. Seeing her frustration, John continued.

"Madame, Headmistress, I am aware that I was rude earlier, and as a student at your Academy, that was unforgivable. I spoke in haste with a misplaced desire to prove my worth. Should you choose to assign months of personal detentions as a punishment to be served every week, I would understand completely." His offer wasn't veiled at all, but it was not the time for veils and obfuscations. It was necessary for his job to remain (relatively) easy that she accepted him and, to a degree, trusted him. Self-deprecation, and entreating from a position of deference gave her all the cards, and the ability to agree to his suggestions with all of her dignity intact. Being the consummate educator, and politician that any headmistress must be, she saw it for what it was.

"I agree. You shall serve a detention with me every Saturday during the first morning class, and will be released a few minutes before the second. Your schedule will reflect this." John nodded agreement, and grabbed his ID back from the table. It no longer served a purpose where it lay other than a reminder of the argument that had come before. The headmistress continued.

"Furthermore, I expect you to be a useful assistant for Professor Zaghloul in your dueling class and to be a part, should you earn it, of our dueling team." John nodded, holding back a smirk. "And, finally, I expect you to hurry up and be on time for our noon meal. After which we will have announcements and then the students will be free to finish moving into their new accommodations and refamiliarizing themselves with the school." John nodded, and made to get out of his seat, but she stopped him.

"Mr. Constantine, as a student here I expect you to reach and surpass the highest standards of self-control and respect. That does include taking off your sunglasses indoors." John frowned.

"My apologies, Madame, but I have an eye condition for which they are a great help." She raised one eyebrow at his genuinely apologetic voice.

"And what condition would that be?" John sighed, and lifted his glasses to his forehead. Brown eyes met green. Life looked upon death. Madame Maxime closed her eyes, wincing. "And that is a natural condition?" John nodded, lowering the silver lenses to obscure the piercing veridian depths.

"Unfortunately, Madam." She nodded, and rubbed her temples with her fingertips.

"Very well, I shall inform the staff. You may carry on with your schedule...and John."

"Oui, Madame."

"It is understood that we will never talk again about...this series of discussions." John recognized each layer of that statement.

"Of course."

* * *

Fleur made sure that she chose a room with Salomé, as she did every year. The dormitories of Beauxbatons were separated into six separate buildings, three for males, and three for females. One for years one through three, another for years four through six, and a final one for seventh years. However, in previous years, there had been four witches per room, and now, with the extra space that being a seventh year provided, only two witches roomed together.

Across the hall from Fleur was Jezebel and a quiet girl named Adelie, who Jezebel had only ended up with because all the other girls had conveniently already paired up before the enthusiastic brunette could ask them. Despite her popularity, her infamously incessant mouth made her...difficult to room with for most. Jezebel and the diminutive redhead were, surprisingly, a good match. Though Adelie did not speak much due to a vocal impediment, she knew enough about fashion and the most recent gossip to occasionally hit the ball of the conversation back into Jezebel's court. An arrangement perfectly fitting the vivacious girl.

Fleur quickly unpacked her things, and then turned to her friend. She had been waiting, biding her time since the world cup to broach a subject that had been irking her for weeks. And now, free from their overly gossiping friend, and free from outside interruptions, she finally had her chance.

"Salomé? I have been waiting a very long time now, and I must ask. What did my maman mean when she said that you and John have been busy training?" She tried to hide the sudden spike of...was that jealousy...she felt when she prepared herself for the answer. Her taller friend regarded her with some curiosity.

"I have been learning to defend myself."

"When? We've been together almost all summer! When have you had the time? How are you training? Is he good? Of course he's good, what I mean is-" Salomé barked out a laugh before stifling it behind a hand at her friend's glare.

"Pardon Fleur, you just sounded like Jezebel for a second there." She mastered the desire to smile, and continued. "Before you wake up, every morning, we train on the beach. Seven days in a row before one day off...I don't think John is religious or anything...I just think it's tradition to have a day off." She finished hanging her last uniform and, brushing her bangs behind an ear, she moved to begin loading the drawers of a large bureau with her less nice clothes.

"He's really good, and I think your father was right to hire him." The blonde continued, gnawing on a lip in thought. "We train in the surf and then…" She trailed off before she began describing the traveling aspect of their training. "And then he comes back while I crawl my way back." She smiled ruefully at the thought

"He makes you _crawl_?" Fleur was askance.

"What? No, no... non! He works me hard enough my legs don't work right…" Salomé smirked both at the unintended double entendre, and at the reddening once more of Fleur's cheeks. "What? Would you like John to work _you _until _your _legs don't work?" The last part was asked through a devilish grin and with a jabbing finger. Fleur immediately began to splutter.

"N-n-no. What are you talking about? You are saying nonsense."

"I'm not sure about that sweet flower. You know there are plenty of stories about a girl and her bodyguard…" Salomé kept up the bombardment, causing her friend to back up, waving her hands in a physical attempt to ward off the attack. However, Fleur was saved by a knock at the door, and a very familiar voice.

"Fleur! Salomé! Hurry up, are you not paying attention? Look at the time!" Another trio of knocks. "Salomé! It is lunch time, I am hungry and I know you are too. I swear, Adelie, she alone eats more than most small families!" This time a furious pound that sounded like someone kicking the door. "Ow, _foutre _that hurt. FLEUR!" The two girls looked at each other from within their bastion of safety from their verbal dragon of a friend.

"Do we have a choice?" The strawberry blonde shrugged in defeat.

"It's food, Fleur." The silver-haired girl's only response was a sigh. The voice continued outside.

"If you do not come out in...is ten seconds fair, Adelie? Yes? I think so too. IF YOU DO NOT COME OUT IN TEN SECONDS, YOUR ROOM WILL BE ORLEANS AND I SHALL BE JEANNE D'ARC!" Then, in what was probably a whisper for the brunette, "Was that a good one Adelie? I don't really know how to be intimidating..." Fleur looked at her friend and saw an expectant eyebrow raised. It took her a second to understand. When she did, she threw a scowl her friend's way.

"Salomé! Of course I know who Jeanne D'Arc is! I am not stupid!"

"I'm not sure Fleur, neither history nor Professor Giuseppe agree with that statement."

"Shut up!"

"Make me!"

"Mon Dieu, you are such an ass!"

"I do have one. _Un cul magnifique_. Or so I have been told."

"Who said that?"

"If I said John, would you get jealous again?"

"..."

"He hasn't said anything to my knowledge about _yours_, but if he does, I'll make sure to pass it on."

"Salomé…"

"Or if he's willing to do some _physical _exercise and make your legs not work…"

"AGHHHHHH!" The veela swung an angry hand at her friend, but Salomé ducked, deciding that a talkative evil she knew how to ignore was better than one with magical fireballs that she couldn't. The tall girl opened the door and charged out to the relative safety of Jezebel and Adelie.

"Ah, Salomé, I thought you would never...why are you running? Oh, so now you are going to run past us without even saying hello to me? Without saying hello to Adelie? I swear Adelie, they never tell me anything, why just this summer we were...MON DIEU FLEUR, YOUR HANDS ARE ON FIRE!"

* * *

By the time the quartet had made it to the ancient amphitheater where the students ate, Fleur had calmed down enough to only throw glares in her friend's direction. John joined them, much to Fleur's chagrin, and Salomé wide grin. After introducing the silver-lensed boy to their new quiet compatriot, the five moved through a serving line, selecting the foods they wanted from several lines of open air food stands. John noticed the dozens of runes that kept the food clean at each stand, and marveled at the french. Not many cultures would go so out of their way to ensure an old tradition was upheld. It couldn't have been easy to work all those runic arrays together, and yet, for the sole purpose of allowing students to eat outside in a relatively clean manner, the french had gone out of their way to make it possible.

The food, worthy of the complexity of the wards around them, was delicious, and each student had the choice to enjoy their global cuisine on either the terraced stone of the amphitheater, or on several long tables and benches set up across the central stage. Jezebel hurried over to the tables to make room for all of them, and so it was that they settled for polite conversation over a scrumptious meal.

However, as with all good things, it was not to last. A handsome brown haired boy with a decidedly slimey grin approached with three friends. Fleur groaned.

"Carrel, I have no desire to interact with you, much less during my first meal back." Across the table, Jezebel met John's quick glance and mouthed '_almost an ex'_. The approaching youth seemed unfazed by Fleur's hostility, and nodded to his friends. One shoved Jezebel and Adelie apart to sit across from Fleur, another pushed between Fleur and a scowling Salomé to sit hip to hip with the gorgeous silverette. Finally as Carrel himself stood behind the veela, the third of the newcomer's friends attempted to shove himself between John and his ward. He failed utterly.

Ignoring the failure of one of his goons, and still ignoring the frosty reception, Léopold Carrel spread his hands and attempted a regal gesture of introduction. John was surprised to notice that, from how close it was to being well executed, the boy was not a poser, and was likely cut of noble cloth. However, to his trained eye, Carrel's relative inexperience showed.

"Fleur, my dear, I seek no contention with your friends. Believe you me, I was shocked, shocked I tell you, when I discovered I had been elected seventh year male préfet." He placed one hand on his chest in a mockery of genuinity. "I know that our position is one of great importance in the workings of the school, and I believe that a...quick...meeting now could let us get the unpleasantries out of the way to set the stage for a more...enjoyable future." Were it not for the clear discomfort his charge was showing, and were it not for the disgusting leer that Carrel cast with his eyes, John would have had to recognize the seventh year as a talented actor. Though exaggerated, his method was sound and his speech moved and flowed naturally with the tale he was weaving.

However, Fleur was disgusted by the boy's advances, and the boy was, in fact, leering. John spoke up.

"Mr. Carrel, even if you are supposed to be making your first inroads with a fellow class officer, I will thank you to remove yourself from the vicinity of my cousin. Even a blind man could see that your insipid intentions are not as well cloaked as you would believe." John's voice was a gently accented French, allowed a bit of his Irish brogue to mix with the words, and managed to carry across the Amphitheater. The boy with voluminous, curly brown hair sighed as he moved his raised nose to peer at the one who had foiled his attempt to make space to sit next to the beautiful girl.

"Her cousin, you are? Strange, I know of no other Delacour branch in France...nor for that matter in all of Europe. Truly my friend, lies do not befit you." John was happy to ignore the pomp in Carrel's voice, but the eyes of scores of students had begun to turn their way, and he wasn't going to let a chance pass to show Beauxbatons that there was a new status quo.

"Well clearly, you bravatic blowhard, I'm not a pureblood from the mainland. The Constantine Clan moved from the Byzantine Empire to France after the second fall of Rome, became blooded Vassal's to the Delacour Family, and then splintered into Great Britain after joining Guillaume of Normandie. Upon earning minor fame during the Battle of Hastings, we were granted lands in Caledonia, before being relocated to the Northern Counties of Ireland when we got too rowdy. If your ears and mind were functional enough to connect my accent with a basic study of French Magical History, you would have been able to assume as much." The pureblooded scion grew red, flustered by someone challenging his heraldic and court acumen in such a bold manner.

"Why you filthy cur!" He gestured to his friends and took a step back, a smug snarl across his face. "Teach him a lesson!" John didn't even let the three goons register that command. Salomé began to draw her wand, but John was faster.

"Duck." He said to Fleur. She did, and he struck like a viper. His right elbow swinging back and up while his right foot shot forward. It slammed into Goon 3's gut under and across the table, doubling over the black-haired boy, incidentally causing the youth to smash his own face into the sturdy wood. John's elbow connected millimeters below Goon 2's sternum, and then his right leg was retracting from its strike. While it was still under the table, his leg was now moving parallel with the floor in a backwards side-kick that shot from under the wood and crunched into Goon 2's hip. Goon 2 hit the floor immediately, howling.

With his foot now free of the confines of the long bench, John planted his right foot, and rotated clockwise nearly two-hundred-and-seventy degrees on it, executing a lightning quick spinning roundhouse kick that swung his left leg out from under the table, over the bench, then over the ducking Fleur and impacted the jaw of Goon 1, resounding with an audible crack and knocking him off the bench. John brought his leg back down to earth, and spun his wand into his hand, blasting Goon 3 in the face with a stunner as his head rebounded from smashing into the table, and sending him crashing backwards to the ground. The boy in silver sunglasses turned his mirrored gaze to the incredulous Léopold Carrel and, without changing the target of his glare, shot Goon 2 with a stunner for good measure.

"She asked you to leave. I asked you to leave." Under the younger-boy's scrutiny, Carrel physically shivered and nodded his head emphatically.

"Yes...yes, of course! I meant no harm of course! I'll...I'll be on my way!" He held his hands up in surrender and backed away. The once-pompous youth glanced to the unconscious bodies of his goons and saw Goon 1 still moaning pitifully, trying to gather his teeth from the floor around him. "W-w-what about Seyrès?" There was a flash of red as John _stupified _the crawling and blubbering bully. "Oh...no problem then...I'll be going...agh!" The last indignant squawk as the wand turned towards him, any final vestige of courage left him, and he scampered away.

Silence filled the room as hundreds of eyes watched the scene. Then clapping started from a blond boy who had stood from the stone ledges with two of his friends. As he began to clap, other pockets of students began to echo the sound, as if they were hesitant to applaud a fight but thought it rude to not follow his lead. Soon, a majority of the students were clapping. Evidently, Carrel was not the most popular. Bullies rarely were. As the blond approached, John took in his crystal clear eyes, and the two others beside him. They weren't thugs, though they looked far more skilled that Carrel's friends had been. Fleur placed one hand on John's shoulder and stood from the bench, whispering to John.

"The Assistant Master of Students...elected by the teachers to act as an authority even higher than the student elected préfets." Fleur, to John's surprise, gave a small curtsy. The boy inclined his head.

"Mademoiselle Préfète Delacour. Do we have an issue among the préfets?" His voice was cultured and rich. Every bit what Carrel had been attempting to sound like.

"Non, Maître Malfoy." John's eyes snapped over to the blond, and the other boy noticed. Fleur, now standing in front of her bodyguard, didn't and continued. "My cousin became...upset with a perceived slight that Préfet Carrel made to me. John is an exchange student from one of the dueling schools and, thus, is more accustomed to more...physical resolutions. I had already planned on explaining his infraction to him." Malfoy nodded, and turned his gaze to John.

"I can no longer say that it is a good afternoon, unfortunately, but I can say that it is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur…?

"Constantine."

"The College Cú Chulainn? Fleur said you were from a dueling school, and with your accent I must make some assumptions."

"You would be correct."

"I heard that the College beat the Tunis Institution only to lose to the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije in the quarterfinals last year."

"Yes, well it was Nikaya Lipasky's senior year, and with Connor Tennison magically exhausting himself in the first round, we didn't have anyone who could truly match the Herzegovinian Hellion." John let a little heat rise in his voice, trying to sound as if he had felt insulted by the hinted jab at his school. Malfoy seemed to take the honeyed bait.

"Fair enough." He smiled. "Unfortunately, I will have to take you to the headmistress to speak about this...fight." Jezebel shot to her feet, but the blond boy raised one hand to forestall the verbal barrage that she was about to unleash. "I understand John was defending his cousin, but I still must make a formal report."

Jezebel still looked ready to unleash, but Adelie laid a hand on her roommate, and the fuming girl sat with a huff. John turned to the girls.

"It won't be long." And he walked away with Malfoy, leaving the girls and Malfoy's two friends behind. Though they all knew each other, the other two boys recognized the atmosphere for what it was, and left with polite apologies for the hassle their friend had been obligated to make. Jezebel finally had had enough.

"Twice in a matter of hours since he arrived he has had to meet with the headmistress, it must be some sort of record! What even were they talking about?" Salomé slid her wand back up her shirtsleeve and pinned it there between her forearm and two hair ties, the looser of which she had slid further up her arm. Now, she spoke.

"As you know, John went to one of the Eight Great Schools of Dueling. They include the College Cú Chulainn in Ireland, the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije just north of Sarajevo, and the Tunis Institution in Tunisia, all of which he just mentioned. Every year the eight schools compete in the Cup of Eight for the right to send their team to compete in the ICW's World Dueling Championship.

"Last year, a student from the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije named Nikaya Lipasky led his school to winning the Cup. He is called the Hellion because of his seemingly supernatural magical endurance and his mastery over the dueling world's version of _fiendfyre._ In the finals of the Cup, he used it to not only batter his opponent with multiple, independent, flame whips, but also transfigured some of the fire into creatures to attack his opponents from behind. He is already ranked an International Master at just eighteen years old, and is thought to be a Grand Master within two years." Fleur cocked her head.

"Where are the other five schools?" Salomé didn't even need to think.

"India has one in Odisha, Australia has another in Tarra Valley, there is also one in South Africa west of Pretoria, and the largest of them all is, appropriately, in Texas. The last, and certainly not least, is the Dragon School in China. It's exact location is a closely guarded secret."

"No school in South America?"

"Funny story to that, one of the most interesting times when Muggle Policy affected the Magical worlds. You see, when the American president James Monroe-"

"Salomé!" Jezebel all but shouted, agitated. "How do you _know _all of this?"

"Besides Football and Quidditch...and perhaps food...dueling is my greatest passion. I'm not very good yet, but then again I haven't been training since I could walk. I didn't perform any obvious accidental magic as a kid, so I didn't even know magic existed until I got a letter from Beauxbatons." Salomé smiled a little at the memory, but Jezebel was still stupefied.

"Since when have you liked dueling? You haven't talked about it before today, not ever!" Fleur smirked.

"Yes she has, Jezebel, rather often in fact."

"Non, I would remember if she had! Why, are you accusing me of not caring about what my very best friends-"

"Jezebel." Adelie placed her hand on the excitable brunette's shoulder again. It took her a few seconds, her mouth moving but no sound coming out, before she overcame the verbal tic. "You're n-n-not that g-great at listening. When...when o-others talk, you like to j-j-just wait until it is y-y-your turn to talk." Jezebel's jaw hung open. There was a stunned silence for a few long, glorious seconds.

"First, that is the most you have spoken _all day_! Adelie, great job!" She gave the wide-eyed Adelie a crushing hug before turning to face her friends at large. "Second! Why have none of you told me this! Do you expect me to fix problems I don't know exist? Do you think I don't care? You see what I must deal with, Adelie? My so called friends, great friends they are, they never tell me anything! Why just the other day..."

* * *

Amelia had been on her way with Sirius to interrogate the prisoners when he had remembered to run back and grab something from his office, and had promised to meet her there.

"You can start as the 'good cop' and I can catch up a few minutes after that and be the 'bad cop'. It'll be great!" He had said, and sped off. So she had been by herself, when she had rounded the last corner before the cells on one of the Ministry's lowest floors when she had seen the Auror in charge of security unmoving, and in the process of being dragged into an open cell. She had reached for her wand before someone who must have been _disillusioned _stunned her in the back.

So here she was now, groggily fighting off the effects of the stunner and finding herself roped up like the victim in an old western, and listening to the two death-eaters arguing about if they had time to 'make an example of her.' One had suggested that a _crucio_ could provide a faster form of lesson, that they didn't have time for a full 'cut and cure' treatment.

After almost a minute of back-and-forth, the second man had convinced the first, and the first had raised his wand, snarling the torture curse. She saw the crimson light begin to emanate from the wand. Her wand. Then a bronze shield appeared in front of Amelia, blocking the curse.

The two criminal's eyes grew wide, understandable, considering that their supposedly unblockable spell had been absorbed by something that should have shattered from the strain, and they turned and fled down the hall. As she heard footsteps behind her, she couldn't help but begin to form the words of a thank for her partner, but then Tom _fucking_ Riddle was stepping past her, closing the distance to the fleeing suspects with casual menace.

He raised an empty hand as if he was conducting an orchestra, and brought it to the floor. The stone ceiling ahead of the death eaters melted like a waterfall of cold magma, and they stumbled to a halt to avoid the sudden barrier. Riddle beckoned with one hand, and the leftmost prisoner shot towards him. _Wandlessly_ and _wordlessly_ casting, Amelia noted, shaken. He kept the same hand aloft, and spread his fingers wide, conjuring a blazing red rune in mid air. The flying death-eater collided face-first into the rune, and collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut.

His companion raised the stolen wand, her stolen wand, and launched a weak barrage of spellfire at the advancing Unspeakable, but it was hopeless. Riddle waved one hand, and the spells simply faded from existence mid-flight. With his other hand, he banished the prisoner into the wall of the passage, where the death-eater's head hit the steady stone, and he too slumped to the ground. With a swish of one finger, the stolen wands flew to his hand, and Riddle turned back to Amelia. He canceled the still-glowing shield in front of her, _evanesced _the ropes, and handed both her wand and the dead guard's wand to her.

"You are uninjured I see. Good. The Ministry can't afford to lose any more Aurors to cowards like these...especially not one of the best they have." She flushed at the compliment, and before she could reply, he had swept by her, laying a hand ever-so briefly on her shoulder, and then was gone as quickly as he had arrived. The skin of her neck, even under a cloak, blouse and undershirt, burned red with warmth. The smell of his magic lingered in the wake of his presence. Smoke from the campfires of a hiking-filled youth. The first downpour of spring. And a subtle, earthy-vanilla scent that reminded her of the Heliotrope flower. Amelia shivered. _Fuck_.

* * *

**N/B: \Quite a lot of research went into everything dueling related in the chapter, from the Schools to the spells. Most of the final product has cool historical cookies hidden behind one or two simple google searches. Treasure hunt to your heart's content!**

**\For those still frustrated by the Sunglasses secret, I can say this. I choose my words **_**very carefully**_ **when describing what happens when the glasses come off. **

**\A review or two wanted Fleur to get in on the training. Fear not, that is an inevitability, and this chapter also served to clear the remaining plot obstacles to that.**

**\Guillaume of Normandie is a french spelling of the anglicized William the Conqueror, who grabbed his armies, hired some vikings, and conquered England in the early 11th Century.**

**\The Assistant Master of Students is my french version of the British Head Boy and Head Girl. I just didn't like that title, nor its direct translation, so I made my own. (I will still use the normal terms at Hogwarts, as it would be selfish to change canon **_**that much**_**. *Laughs in hypocrisy*)**

**\The final scene is supposed to have a different **_**feel**_ **to it. If it seems weird, I have done my job. If not, let me know. I want to add that ability to my repertoire, but I obviously can't if it doesn't work.**

**Authors Note: **

**Sorry for the long Nota Bene, but this is almost thirty pages in two weeks! Let's keep the ball rolling! Y'all are wonderful with the ridiculous support you give. We are close to eight-freaking-hundred followers, more than forty-thousand reads, and y'all are killing it with the reviews! Literally, every...single...time that I see another review pop up I lose my mind! I will, of course, continue fighting to deserve all the support y'all are sending my way. **

**As in the last chapter's note, if y'all need prayer or anything, let me know.**

* * *

**To answer those who were curious, I'm a Parris Island marine [though I have a relative who's a Hollywood marine. We, obviously, banter about it every holiday reunion].**

**[And as for Handwashing and Antibac versus Prayer, who wins in a healing contest? Marksbay, we might have an argument on our hands...I believe only Rock, Paper, Scissors can solve this… :) ] [B/N: Why not both?]**

_**(Errors in written french corrected after comments from a guest. Thank you for the help.)**_

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**Across religions, across borders, across the dinner table, stay safe,**

'**Love y'all,**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	8. The First Steps

**Relevant Inspiration:**

**_Deprived _by the Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, nor Filipino.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

-VIII-

The picturesque glade held a large plantation-manor and a smattering of cabins and sheds in a nook between three mountains. Snow claimed the lofty peaks, but the green fields held the verdant summer splendor that any postcard or wanderlust-filled hiker would fawn over. Even in moonlit darkness, as it was currently subject to, it held an inherent, supernatural beauty. Leaning on the stone railing of one of the manor's balconies, overlooking the secluded property, a lean man in slacks and a half-buttoned ivory-white shirt sipped from a crystal flute. His sin of choice for the evening was an Irish beer, but he drank it in such trace amounts as the glass permitted because the dark liquid was over a thousand years old. Pilfered from the cellars of an Irish monastery that had fallen to Saxon invaders in the mid first-millennium AD, the drink was a delicacy that few could afford.

The man smiled as he heard the chopping of rotors through the air. The incoming helicopter was still several miles distant, but to his ears even with the echoing and diffusing mountains, its approach was easily pinpointed. He spoke aloud, and though quiet, he was certain the woman thirty feet behind him could just as easily hear him as he had heard the imminent visitors.

"They actually left their escorts behind as We asked." He took another sip, though he winced as he caught his verbal slip. Even centuries later, the Royal habit persisted. He fixed the error, and continued. "What does that tell you?"

"Commander, it tells us that he is desperate."

"It does indeed, my insidious savant." The regal man grinned through another sip, razor-sharp canines gleaming in the moonlight. "And what does that make him?"

"Twice as dangerous, but twice as valuable a client for the Director." The once-King nodded mutely at his subordinate's comments.

"And the Director's choice to leave the courting to me?"

"A snub. Thrice as dangerous, thrice as valuable."

"Well done." The commander of the Manor Guard did not heap praise often, but when he did it was well deserved. Normally, he would not be in the picture for meetings with clients, but this client had requested services rendered at the highest level of mortal politics, politics that clashed with ancient European powers. And so his expertise had been deemed advantageous to the director, his master, his _sire_.

"Thank you, Commander. I took the liberty of having your regular team form up at the prefered overwatch positions, and the secondary team replace them as the roving guards."

"And the asset we think most suited for this job?"

"Ready and waiting." Outside, the fast moving helicopter had emerged from behind the mountains, and made its approach through a long valley that dead-ended at the mansion. While the Commander knew that the half-green, half-white Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King had many countermeasures for any threat that came its way, even the legendary vehicle wouldn't be safe if the thirteen anti-aircraft batteries hidden in stone bunkers carved into the mountains opened fire. If it grounded itself to attempt to survive, even the score of elite servicemen on board wouldn't be able to protect their charge from the forces that the Mansion could bear.

In fact, the Commander would be willing to bet that he alone could slaughter the killers who guarded the helicopter and return to the Director with the VIP unharmed. And yet, he didn't order the Sikorsky obliterated, and he didn't order it grounded with targeted electro-magnetic pulses and the occasional technology-frazzling spell. The clients who came to the Mansion trusted the Director and his forces with their safety, and in the centuries that the organization had existed unders one name or another, no clients had ever come to harm unless he had ordered it.

As the helicopter quietly whirred through the brisk air to a landing pad illuminated in the night, the Commander gave a feral smirk, gleaming fangs bared to the moonlight. He once more spoke into the air around him, addressing the woman.

"You said Royce had made contact again, but Goldflour was displeased."

"Yes, Commander. Royce believes his charge will join the tournament against her father's commands. He wishes clearance to interfere in the tournament to protect her, and desires a guarantee of political support if fallout should be engendered." The dark-haired man laughed. A sound like silk on satin.

"Goldflour is only upset because he is, at heart, a nationalist with resentment to the Old World, and France in particular." He took a final sip of his beer, and placed the glass down on the stone. Then he turned, and walked past the girl to the stairs that would lead him to the helipad. The woman followed behind. "Fortunately for Royce, I am biased, quite biased in favor of the French. Tell him that I will personally pull some strings if need be." The woman nodded once, then turned on her heel to pass the commands off.

Though she was almost immediately replaced by another bare-foot guard, the Commander of Security for the Akadimía never paused in his step. He loved the fact that the ICW had gathered the courage to reinstate the great tournament. It felt like just last year that he had been called 'the greatest mage' of his age for winning it. It would be...great...to see another victory for France.

When the helicopter landed, men in suits and two smartly dressed guards in blue and white exited, followed by a tall man with an American flag on his lapel, and then more guards. The Commander approached with his hands spread in both a broad welcome, and to show he was unarmed.

"Good evening, Mr. President, I trust your trip was smooth and uneventful. I must thank you for leaving your escorting aircraft behind, the fewer people that know of us, the better we can guarantee the effectiveness of our services." The President, used to the sales pitches of both corporations and foreign dignitaries, saw both in this man's words.

"I must say, my generals were not thrilled at the request, but I had it from the mouth of many old friends that your Academy is worth the discretion, and I can't help but think that if your services are as effective as your defences here, I am more than happy to make use of your agents." The white-haired man had a way of speaking that, even when long winded, captured the attention of the listener, and the Commander gave a genuine tilt of his head in both acknowledgement of the compliment, and in respect for the skills of another orator.

"We are, of course, pleased that our name carries such weight. Please, Mr. President, you may call me Charles. If you come this way, we can move to a more comfortable location for business." The two men shook hands, and proceeded into the mansion.

* * *

Antonin Dolohov looked at the bodies scattered in the hallway and idly summoned their wands to his hand as he stepped over them, carefully avoiding pooling puddles of blood and splatters of gore. He used one of the wands to unlock the cell door, and then walked in. Dolohov didn't give the two death eaters a chance to even offer pathetic thanks to their seeming rescuer before he turned their skulls inside out with two turquoise spells. Ignoring the wet slapping sound of their grey matter on grey stone, he threw the five wands he had acquired into the room, then strode out.

Voldemort's senechal and chamberlain was in the middle of guiding _fiendfire_ through the room to remove any evidence when he heard heavy feet on steps, and a tall man raced around the corner, flanked by two members of the _Dague Group_. The giant newcomer measured the shorter intruder with cautious eyes.

"I would not have expected-" Dolohov didn't give him time to finish.

"_Seredessa. Venca simulsen. Arxatior. Perfidia._" A wave of blue flames flooded the passage, licking against and scalding the ancient walls. Among the obscuring fire came a shotgun blast of violet light, a corkscrewing silver strand of shimmering steel, and a bubbling black beam. The man to the giant's left had time to cast a flame freezing charm, but the violet cone of light shredded him like a woodchipper. The giant weathered the sudden storm, wand drawn and dancing to erect vital defenses, but the woman to his right ducked the whip blade only to be liquefied by the black spell.

Suddenly, it was one on one, and Timofey Pierre realized how woefully outclassed he was.

* * *

Fleur was beginning to regret her decision. Face down in the morning dew, fingernails caked with dirt, her clothes were as soaked from sweat as they were from the damp grass. Beside her, Salomé was sucking in air, on her back. _This was training? John has gone mad!_ Fleur found herself on the brink of getting up and shouting her mind at the younger boy, but to her dismay, Salomé rolled over and shot to her feet. The strawberry-blonde hissed in anger and measured her breathing, before hurling herself to the side of a viridian beam that lanced her way.

Fleur watched as her friend countered with a short salvo of spells, before the ground shifted beneath her, and she tripped. The girl had the presence of mind to roll sideways on landing, avoiding by chance a following binding hex. Salomé scrambled into cover behind a tree, and threw a glance at her still prostate friend.

"You...gonna even try…" She spat, though a grin cut the tension in her labored words. Fleur scowled.

"You are insane. This is insane." The other girl shrugged.

"Perhaps, but I am definitely getting better."

"Not as good as I am, though."

"Prove it, pretty _flower_." It was the silverette's turn to hiss in anger, and she clambered to her feet. No sooner was she up than a viridian beam flew her way, but she blocked with a hastily drawn runic shield, and the spell ricocheted into the ground. Then she was throwing her repertoire at John.

"_Stupify! Abstesso! Pulsus, Incarcerous, Privalde_!" John ducked the stunner, blocked the blinding whip, then returned to nimble footwork to avoid the force hammer, the ropes, and then the cross-shaped red curse. Though the quintuplet of spells wasn't among the girl's most powerful combinations, it still surprised her that he seemed to expend so little energy to avoid any impacts. Feeling the heat of frustration burn across her cheeks, she redoubled her efforts.

"_Knoss! Ellenel! Petrificus Pied! Somnus_!" The bodyguard avoided these as well. She grew more and more furious. He was toying with her..._mocking _her and she would not stand for it.

"_Celo! Amarille Mori! Vesta sepra! Everte Statum, Accio stone, relashio, shasserlauff_!" But still, John remained unfazed, avoiding or blocking the potentially lethal combination. He deflected the bone splinter curse, shielded against the blood clotting hex and the sternum-splitter, then dodged the blast of force, the bludger-like rock that almost sucker punched him from behind, and the final duo meant to banish him into a tree and pin him there. Then, as quickly as she had been attacking, he was walking towards her, wand carving quick runes in the air and pushing them at her one by one.

A stunning rune. A freezing rune. A rune designed to make the target's limbs go numb and 'fall asleep', effectively immobilizing its victim. Each one forced Fleur to pour her magic into a counterspell, as the walls of energy that whispered from John's wand were too wide by the time they reached her for her to dodge.

Eventually, though she lasted almost three minutes, Fleur found her pool of magic running dry, and the next buffeting wave of magic crashed through her stammered counterspell and sent her paralyzed to the earthen floor. As she fell, and her world faded to darkness, her only victorious thought came in noticing Salomé had, even behind the cover of the tree trunk, been knocked unconscious first.

She awoke to a conversation.

"...so you're saying that runic casting is legal in formal duels."

"Yep."

"Then why don't I ever see it in professional matches?"

"It's a giant spell wall Salomé, it's kind of hard to miss with a counterspell or even a _finite_. Not to mention runic casting is slower than regular casting." The tall girl considered the point.

"Two questions. First, if they are so slow, how were you casting them so quickly? Second, couldn't you also just cast a finite rune on the ground? Wouldn't it counter the runic spell when the wall reached that point?" John smiled.

"To your second point, yes, well thought out! In fact, it was that exact revelation that brought about the end of Faoli Lochlear's five-year reign as World Champion. As for your first question, that's because I am really good at runes. That and I have practiced for an extraordinarily and unnecessarily long time to be able to do just that." Salomé considered this, smiling slightly at his compliment. Then her grin grew wider as she both came to a realization, and saw her friend rise groggily to a sitting position.

"Morning, Fleur!" The Veela glared at the strawberry-blonde, but Salomé continued,

"John? Could you cast a _finite_ rune as a wall like you did? Would that stop a bunch of spells, or would it fade after the first spell it reached?" The boy with silver glasses laughed.

"That entirely depends on how much power you put into it." Fleur narrowed her eyes as she wiped a piece of dirt off of her cheek.

"You two do this every morning…" She didn't mean to say it out loud, but her voice moved before her mind did. Her friend looked over.

"Yep. Have been for...what has it been John, a month and a half now?"

"More or less."

"And trust me, that was only a good warmup, he toned down the challenge since it's your first morning." Fleur cursed at that. She couldn't give up now. Not only because Salomé would never let her live it down, but Fleur needed to stay top of her class in as many subjects as possible. Not just because she needed to prove to the world she was more than a pretty face, but because this year, _especially_ this year, she needed to be the best. She couldn't let the Goblet decide that anyone else was a better choice.

"Again tomorrow?" She asked. Salomé snorted.

"I just said that what we just did was a warmup…" The veela blanched. John grinned, wand spinning in his hand. Fleur took a long breath, then stood up.

"Alright, let's go."

* * *

Fleur was, decidedly, regretting her decision to partake in the morning session. While she wouldn't change her mind if she could go back in time, she had not been expecting the strain that training would tax upon her weary body. Yet, despite the mental, magical, and physical weariness she now felt, she dragged herself to her first class of the year. _Just my luck._ She half-groaned to herself. _Dueling is my first class._

Professor Zaghloul was the only person in the room when she arrived, and he waved her over. Placing her quills, colored inks, notebook, and textbook on a desk near the front of the classroom, and approached her instructor. He was neither one of the oldest, nor the newest teachers at Beauxbatons, and had been teaching for just long enough to build a reputation among the students as one of the school's best. Though he could be brutal in the scope of the punishments he dished out to students who flaunted the safety rules, he was an enthusiastic teacher and was well liked.

Boasting over a decade of experience as a senior-investigator of EMLE, the Egyptian Magical Law Enforcement, and having represented his country in the 1989 and the 1993 Wyvernwand Tournaments, as well as his professional dueling team for seventeen years, Beauxbatons had hired him almost two decades ago to bolster their fading dueling program, However with the departure of their head coach after incurring a temporary (whispered behind closed door) two year ban from competitions, Zaghloul had not been able to single-handedly bring the team back to its former glory.

"How was your summer, Ms. Delacour?"

"It went well, thank you Professor. And yours?" He chuckled.

"It was uneventful until the Summerspell Tourney, and then the Quidditch World Cup of course." He smiled ruefully, "Of course it would be the first year that I do not go to the final match that something exciting happens…Ah, but no matter. This year will be very fun."

Fleur nodded. Before even she had learned of the upcoming Triwizard Tournament from her father, she had heard the rumors of its reinstatement from her teacher. The dueling community, having learned that _if_ the legendary tournament was brought back a separate dueling competition would be added, had quickly gathered any political power they could muster and pushed to aid in the proposal.

Before news had even broken of the acceptance of the ICW, a small bulletin had been posted to the various Magical Ministries around the world noting new job openings for 'tournament judge' and 'dueling supervisor'. Since there were no new tournaments created by the Duelist's Commission, the group had immediately realized that the Tournament had been approved.

As she was one of his best students, Professor Zaghloul had told Fleur of the Tournament, and upon her insistence, had sent her a list of several books on dueling that she had studied over the summer.

"Are you still interested in joining our school team this year?"

"Of course, Professor." She cocked her head slightly and let a smirk play across her features. "And I intend to win the Tournament for Beauxbatons." He laughed, incorrectly assuming her bravado was only for the dueling tourney. Then he clapped his hands, and an excited grin burst forward, seemingly having been held back for too long.

"Ms. Delacour, I learned something wonderful just yesterday afternoon. Somehow, a miracle worker she is surely, our Headmistress managed to get a member of one of the Eight Great Schools of Dueling to spend their exchange year with us!" Fleur played a smile, but inside she sighed. _Of course John would run along with Salomé's lie from their first meeting at St. Germain-des-Prés. Now even my teachers believe it._

"It's perfect timing." He continued, "If you and he are on the team, we will be absolutely deadly!" He showed as much excitement as a child receiving a puppy for christmas, and Fleur couldn't help but smile. Then his face turned serious, and he nodded to a student who had just arrived. "That will be all for now, Ms. Delacour. Good morning Mr. Barreau."

She returned to her seat, nodding as well to the other student. Aurélien Barreau was one of Darian Malfoy's best friends, and was dangerous with a wand. It was said that if you needed anything that the school...frowned upon, Darian Malfoy could supply it. With the teachers thinking the regal blond a saint, Barreau at his side, and his other friend Florentin Rizal being the grandson of the legendary Filipino reformist writer and advocate for a free Philippine Republic, the trio ruled the school. Barreau saw her nod, and returned the gesture, before walking to the front to speak with Professor Zaghloul about something.

Fleur considered herself lucky that she had managed to stay under Malfoy's radar for the first four years of her schooling, but then her first magical maturity had hit, and she had gone from cute girl to ravishing beauty. Though Malfoy and his friends had never made unwanted approaches or gestures to her, the cunning Rizal had approached her with an offer.

_I know how boys are looking at you. While we can't prevent them from that, I can stall their physical approaches for a year, until you get better control of yourself and your abilities._ It was always like this with Rizal. He made the offers that Malfoy could never make if he wanted to still claim ignorance of his 'procurement' empire. Florentin did his research to find what people would need before they realized it themselves. Then he would make them an offer, and they would of course refuse.

Later, however, when they realized that they did in fact need whatever Rizal had offered, they would find the price increased and with no choice but to pay it. She hadn't fallen for the trick, and by that evening he was a hundred galleons and one favor richer. As always, he and his friends had come through. The first, and last boy to approach her that year with less than noble intent found himself at the wand-tip of Darian Malfoy, and charged with harassment. The result, the accused had detention for half the year, lost his class points in the annual Class Cup, and Fleur was at peace for her entire fifth year of schooling.

As she watched Barreau speak with the professor, she didn't hold it against the trio of boys. They were just playing the games politicians did, but several years before their peers realized the need for such games to be played. And, if she was honest, she had benefited from the year of peace. A stress-less break that let her catch up on her work, and progress past the majority of her fellow students into the top five in her school.

"Fleur! You didn't tell me you would be here this early! Why not? I would have walked with you! Adelie would have too, wouldn't you have Adelie? Of course you would have." Jezebel dropped her things on the table right of Fleur's, and as suddenly as the brunette had appeared, the rest of her entourage had materialized.

Salomé sat beside her as always, Adelie with Jezebel at another table separated from theirs by a narrow aisle. John sat at the table to her left, with an open seat on his left. She smiled wanly at her friends.

"Good morning, Jezebel." She said. "I had a few quick questions for the Zag I wanted to ask before you got here. I didn't find them important enough to interrupt our inevitable conversations, so I got here before you." Jezebel seemed at least partially placated, and she nodded.

"Very well, but must you keep calling the Professor that? It is not polite, and most certainly not proper. He is a master duelist and has earned the respect-"

"Jezebel, everyone calls him 'the Zag' when not talking directly to him." Salomé supplied, to Jezebel's obvious irritation. However, there was a loud clamor that interrupted her, as a heap of students piled into the classroom, swarming to various desks and arguing over their seating to try and be near their friends. It was the inevitable last second rush before the bell. Jezebel shot Salomé a look that declared in no uncertain terms that they would be revisiting this later. It was at that moment that the subject of their conversation coughed to gather the room's attention.

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to a new year of classes and, more importantly of course, a new year of my dueling class." Scattered chuckles met this, and he continued with a smile. "For those who don't know, I am Chevalier Raghad Zaghloul, but you may call me Professor Zaghloul or just Professor. I served for twelve years in the Egyptian Magical Law Enforcement, and had the privilege of representing Egypt in two Wyvernwand Tournaments, wherein I reached the round of sixteen and the round of eight respectively. I also duel for the Baghdad Behemoths, and have been part of six championship teams with them.

"I have taught here at Beauxbatons for twenty years now, and I was knighted a Chevalier of Magical France by the Court of the Old Empire five years ago for my contributions to both the Dueling Program and the international investigation into the Siegfried-Summers Case." He noticed a couple of blank looks, and extrapolated. "The Student Abuse Scandal among the Mediterranean Dueling Teams." He paused to let his resumé sink in, then continued.

"Needless to say, your safety is my priority, and as I have in the past, I will make certain that you are safe in all we do, from training to class trips." There was a quiet murmur that spread through the students. Professor Zaghloul smiled. "Yes indeed, we will be taking several trips this year to watch a formal Dueling tournament, perhaps take part in a small one and, if you all show discipline and attentiveness during my lessons, we might even have the chance to spend three days training with _Los Bandidos de Barcelona_." The classroom burst into noise. Even the least dueling savvy of the students knew of the reigning kings of the World Dueling Championship, who had maintained the title since the turn of the decade.

"That being said," He began again, drawing a semblance of silence from his students, "Most important to you is the training we will do, and I see no reason to lecture you further. We are going to start with the basics today, a simple block-strike combo. Most commonly a _protego_ followed by a _stupefy _or an _expelliarmus_. If everyone would get up and move to the wall, your left wall please."

The students did, and with a softly muttered spell and a wave of his wand, Professor Zaghloul moved all the desks aside to clear a massive space for working. "Note, starting next week the desks will be stacked on dueling days, and spread out as they were today on formal class days. I will let you know ahead of time which days are which so you don't need to bring all your things to class. Now please pair up, and practice the common block-strike. I will walk among you and gauge where you all are." The students did, quickly flooding to their friends and scattering across the room. John looked around, took in the odd glances his glasses were gathering, and saw Darian Malfoy's eyes meeting his own. _Of course. Curse his luck._

"Mr. Constantine, I would enjoy the chance to practice against someone of your skill."

"It would be my pleasure, préfet." John took up his nonchalant duelers stance, square on to his opponent and with his hands behind his back, while Malfoy settled in a more formal one, side on. The blond raised a single eyebrow.

"Most unorthodox, especially from a student of one of the Great Eight." The black-haired boy grinned at the barb, and took in all the angles of his opponent's stance. Feet, hips, shoulders. The slight bend in one knee. The three o'clock sideways angle of his wand. The tilt of his head.

"An Andorran blend, yours is. Not common either." Malfoy dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

"My dad preferred pure French." _Of that, I am well aware. _John thought. "But my teacher was Spanish, so I mixed the two." Darian finished, then suddenly, "_Lacera_." John's wand flicked out.

"_Protego Media_. _Ripostă."_

"_Protego Fessus._" Malfoy conjured the iron shield to block the yellow Romanian knock-back hex. He lowered his wand half way, his eyes still locked on his opponent. John nodded, and the two lowered their weapons at the same time. "You are certainly fast."

"I have worked hard to become so." John quoted, but as he expected it went over the pureblood's head. Off to his right, another voice called out.

"While not exactly the _simple_ block-strike, that was certainly well executed Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Constantine." The two students saw their teacher approaching, and the blond teen gave a deep nod of acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Professor. Mr. Constantine is a student at the College Cú Chulainn, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to have him as my training partner."

"So I have heard." Professor Zaghloul focused on John. "I presume you intend to join our dueling club as well?"

"Yes, Professor. I look forward to being able to learn from such an accomplished duelist. The College unfortunately lacks any teachers of the Egyptian schools of magic." The teacher cocked one eyebrow, unwittingly copying Malfoy's earlier gesture.

"I would think a school of the College's reputation would not allow such a gap in their curriculum to exist."

"It is with regret that I must say that they prefer to focus on East-Asian and Roman disciplines of magic more than the African and Arabian."

"In that case, Mr. Constantine, it would be _my_ pleasure to supplement your education. If I may ask, what rank did you hold in your class in Ireland?" John's response was interrupted by a small explosion, shouts of shock from across the room, then some hastily hushed bickering. Professor Zaghloul rolled his eyes. "It is the first day of classes! The _first day!_" He stalked off to find the perpetrators. Malfoy turned to John.

"Welcome to Beauxbatons, where even sixth and seventh-year students still act like first-years. If you will excuse me, as Assistant Master of Students I should...give _assistance _to the professor." He smiled wryly, and walked off after Zaghloul.

The rest of the class went by more smoothly, with their Professor hovering over the groups, an example in the loss of freedom that came with irresponsibility. When he dismissed them, it was with a larger pile of homework than the students were hoping for on their first day, but not quite enough to incite vociferous complaints. It was also at this time that the quintet were forced to split, no longer sharing the same schedule.

While Jezebel and Adelie went off for potions and Fleur had to go help keep order in a library study hall, John and Salomé had runes. The two chatted aimlessly as they walked, before Salomé stopped mid-sentence, trailing off into thought.

"John, how are you going to protect Fleur when you do not have the same schedule? Have you already planned for the field trips?" John nodded.  
"I've planned already for travel, but for safety at this school, I have a shorter list of ideas. Admittedly, I have already implemented several of them." Seeing the girl's frown, he continued. "Did you ever figure out how I kept you from apparating during your land-navigation sessions? When I left you out in the backroads of France-"

"And the Italian Alps that one time."

"-And the Italian Alps that one time." The youth acknowledged. Salomé sifted through her memories of those training sessions. To landing in the sheep's fold. To discovering she couldn't apparate back to the chateau. To hiking home.

"I always figured you were following me…"

"And that would stop you...how?"

"Well either you somehow made a portable anti-apparition runic array and kept it on you, or you discovered a spell that can counter an apparition?" He smiled.

"Close, but not quite." Then he sped up and rounded a corner to the final hallway before their classroom. Salomé hurried after him.

"Wait, dammit John, which one was I close with? John!"

* * *

Lord Delaguède thundered down stone stairs, leaping past the corpses of ministry guards, and sprinting towards the holding cells. His personal team of four mercenary wizards, experienced killers with whom he had worked for almost two decades, were close at his heels. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed two of them to check the bodies they were passing for survivors. He normally wouldn't have cared, but with an attack on the French Ministry, the paperwork would already be asinine enough without having to explain his callous disregard for the useless cell guards.

He slid around the final corner and into one of the lowest levels of the Ministry's prison and he immediately saw a hallway savaged by spellfire, and two wizards. One was prone and unmoving on the ground, and the other was sitting beside the dead man, back to the wall, wand in hand, and panting.

The Hammer of Magical France cleared the hallway himself, and then sent one of his men to check out the nearly molten contents of a once-cell. He approached the panting man and narrowed his eyes.

"Lord Chervaux, you appear injured. What happened." The sitting Lord smiled ruefully, and wiped a trail of blood from his face with one sleeve. He gestured with his wand to the dead giant on the floor.

"I heard the alarms and arrived a minute before you did. Commander Pierre was engaged in a conflict with an unknown hostile. I stepped in to help but it was too late. The attacker was…" He trailed off as he shifted where he sat, and Delaguède saw that he had taken a piercing hex to the knee. The Hammer couldn't help but nod in respect as the Oldblood Party's candidate for Minister of Arcane Defences didn't cry out in pain, but just cast a numbing charm and a blood-congealing hex to staunch the blood flow. "...was quite skilled."

"Will you need that looked at?"

"No, I believe I have staved off the worst of the damage. I think I will let it heal naturally as a reminder to stay vigilant." Lord Delaguède wasn't looking at the shorter man anymore, and so he missed the rueful grin that accompanied the statement. Instead, he regarded the body of the man he had known as being a very capable fighter. He closed Pierre's eyes with two fingers, and said a quick prayer to the dead man's god. The giant was more disposed to believing in the pagan ways, but Maximilian had respected Timofey and it was the least the living man could do.

The sound of scraping leather heralded the arrival of a new man, and curses made clear who it was. Sebastien Delacour raced over to the side of his dead friend, and several tears broke free from his eyes and slid down flushed cheeks. His sorrowful eyes snapped up to his long-time rival and he bit back accusations when he saw the condition of the seated Lord. Instead, he asked his question more diplomatically.

"Who did this?"

* * *

Fleur had nearly torn her hair out by the roots by the time she had finished acting as an intermediary between two squabbling third-year girls, and was now manning the reception desk near the front of the library. Never one to let the time go to waste, she had several books open around her as she worked on Professor Zaghloul's assignment.

She was pleasantly surprised to find a reference to a former Triwizard tournament in her search for the applications of dueling fundamentals in surviving attacks from ICW regulated beasts. Apparently, a few centuries ago, a sixth-year student from Durmstrang had been trapped in a labyrinthine maze..._the Labyrinth of Crete itself_...and had been forced to resort to third-year dueling training to survive an encounter with a trio of Anubi.

According to the book in front of her, it was a perfect case of repetitive training, the ceaseless practice of the same simple spell list to the point of flawless execution, paying off with results in the field. And speaking of training and diligence with results...between morning practice with her bodyguard, and the letter she had hidden in one of her books, she was taking every chance to prepare herself for this year's Tournament that she could. With a glance around, confirming that no eyes were on her, she pulled out the aforementioned letter and read through it quickly. It would do.

When the class was over she approached a young Mitchell Barreau and lied through a mask of boredom. "Mitchell. I was told by someone to get this to your brother. It came from the gossip chain so I can only assume it is from some secret admirer." To his credit, or simply as a confirmation of how common such a thing was, the boy just nodded wearily.

"Oui, préféte. I am sorry they bothered you with this."

"A gold Livre to deliver a message? Please. I wish every love-struck fool mistook me for the Mail Service." The boy ate the beauty's lies like ambrosia and nectar, not even a smidge of suspicion crossing his naive features as he smiled widely, lost in her ethereal beauty. She hid a sigh.

* * *

As the first day of classes came to an end, Salomé felt the anticipation knotting up inside of her. She packed her bags quickly when the potions professor Madame Bonner dismissed them with barely any homework and her trademark, "Y'all stay safe!", and before anyone else had even exited the classroom, she had transfigured her clothes from class robes into workout clothes similar to the football uniforms she had worn for years, shrunk her books to fit in one clenched fist, and was halfway down the hall, sprinting. She made it to the room she shared with Fleur and just as speedily changed into her quidditch gear, grabbed her broom from the closet, and rushed back outside, almost knocking down a few classmates in her rush, and throwing rapid apologies over her shoulder.

Yet, despite all her hurrying, she was still only the third to make it to the quidditch field. Both the schools undeniable, champion beater Lucretia Botrel, and the school's flying teacher and quidditch coach Professor Villalobos were already flying around and batting a bludger back and forth. Lucretia saw her from the corner of her eye, and after smacking the iron sphere away, she rocketed towards Salomé and slid to a stop less than ten feet away.

"Shalom Sal', heard you couldn't get out of class."

"We don't all have contracts with professional clubs." Salomé responded with some actual heat, but not enough to be truly, seriously angry. Two things were known to all about Lucretia. The first was that she was the queen of gossip, and just as Malfoy and his friends could supply anything you could need, it was said that if anything was happening at Beauxbatons, Lucretia knew it. Second, she was so good at quidditch, she regularly got away with skipping the last class of the day to get some extra practice.

Lucretia was signed to the twenty and younger team for the Division 2 champion team of Europe, the Paris Titans. Since the season had started, only two games had been played in Europe's middle division of quidditch, and the Titans had won both. Lucretia had tallied six kills (knocking an opposing player off their broom with a bludger) in those two games, and over forty 'breaks', where she broke apart an attacking run and forced a turnover in possession.

Even in top tier quidditch, those numbers would be impressive. In the youth league of Division 2, it was almost unmatched. Salomé sighed, exhaling the slight jealousy she felt. One day, she would be as good as Fleur in dueling, and one day she would be as good at quidditch as Lucretia. This, she promised to herself.

"Want to join me in some warm-up laps while we wait for the others?" The caramel-skinned girl with jet-black hair asked, backhanding with her bat a bludger that had tried to catch her unaware. Salomé nodded, mounted her broom, and soon was soaring through the sky. As the minutes ticked by the rest of the team began to trickle in from their dorms.

Jasmin Leblanc and Gwen Popelin were the only two sixth year players, and Didier Rouselle and the dreamy-eyed Yves Devereaux completed the quartet from seventh year. Finally, as amazing as several players from Beauxbatons' fifth year were, it was a fourth year that had claimed the spot in the Elite 'Team Premier' crafted by Professor Villalobos each week after practices. Kevin Gauthier was the seventh and final member of this prime squad that had the chance to personally train with the former Mexican national starlette each week, and the training showed.

Once a player made the team for more than a few weeks, it was increasingly unlikely that they would be unseated by any other student until they graduated and left the spot open. Salomé was proud to say this would be her second year as a member, but Lucretia had been uncontested since her third year, and all signs were pointing to Kevin having similar potential.

Once the seven were all present, Professor Villalobos called them all together. She didn't lock the bludger away, and instead let her prodigy fend it off every dozen or so seconds. It was her modus operandi, always alert, always ready.

"Welcome back to work." It was the Latina's style to always remind her students that at high levels, it wasn't just a game, it was a job, and it required dedication and effort just as a job required. "I'm going to cut to the chase, so you can hear it from me first." She met the eyes of every single one of her players. "The Triwizard Tournament is being reinstated this year. A dueling tournament and a quidditch tournament are being added to the event." As her students erupted into questions, she held up one hand to silence them. Behind her, Lucretia smacked away the untiring bludger.

"This year, maintaining your positions in this group means guaranteeing you will represent Beauxbatons at Hogwarts, where the Tournament will be held. As you know, the Scottish school has been our rivals for centuries, and I will not accept any player giving anything other than their all." There was silence among the players as they took in this information. Their coach continued. "That being said, to account for injuries, we will add three substitutes to the roster. They too will be positions up for grabs by any student who wants it enough."

"Professor, will they be joining us for practice today?" Villalobos shook her head at the quiet question from Jasmin.

"Non, but I have selected the three who will join us tomorrow for practice. The sixth year Assia Allouane, the fifth year Miray Savim, and your classmate Mr. Gauthier, Lea Koch." Salomé knew of two of them. Though she didn't recognize the eldest of the three, Miray was a tall lanky boy from Turkey that loved football almost as much as she did, and they had waged many a heated discussion over whose team was superior. Lea Koch, she also knew.

The young German girl had brown hair with blue highlights, sharp bluish-grey eyes like the Atlantic on a cold day, and a tongue as sharp as her wit. She was Lucretia's savant apprentice in all things fashionable, whether whispered or overt. Salomé hadn't known the girl to be skilled at quidditch, but if 'The Aztec Wolf' thought her suitable, who was she to argue? The next question came from the other beater on the team, the hulking seventh year from Cameroon, Didier Rouselle.

"Will Victor Krum be playing for the Durmstrang Institute?" Their coach nodded.

"Of course. But it is important to remember he is not the only threat. Durmstrang has two other players of note, and our rivals have the potential to field a full squad of threats. Do not get complacent." She took in their nods of agreement and then let loose a feral smile. "Who's ready to practice?" The seven shot into the sky, followed by their coach yelling instructions.

She shouted corrections to the beaters on their technique in hitting curling shots that had the potential to 'chase' opponents from behind, corrected Yves with some serious venom when a cheeky behind the back lob from Kevin narrowly slid past the keeper's fingers and into the left hoop, and shot off to challenge Jasmin for the snitch. The Mexican national had a seeming unending pool of energy, and she easily kept up with, and even occasionally burned in pure speed, her students even though the older woman had been retired for more than a decade.

After almost an hour and a half, she ended practice, but asked Salomé to stay. When she was certain that the others were out of ear shot, she looked the taller seventh year in the eyes. "You sent me a letter over the summer regarding something you had seen the Magpies do last season in the English League?" Salomé nodded.

"Oui, mademoiselle. I was thinking I could give it a try, after all, I did play for a few clubs before coming to Beauxbatons." The dark-haired woman looked at her with scrutinous eyes.

"You were ten at the oldest."

"C'est vrai. However, I have kept up with an informal club here, and during the summers I stay in touch with the old team." Seeing her teacher's reluctance and hesitations, the strawberry-blonde pressed on. "And, when on base with my brother, I play with his friends. They are all in peak physical condition and I can keep up with them! Well, all except Kylien, but he used to play for Les Bleus!" Villalobos saw the passion the younger girl had burning behind grey eyes, and she smiled ruefully.

"Very well, but you had best practice on your own time. If I do not think it works often enough in team practices, you will have to stop." Salomé smiled widely.

"Oui mademoiselle, merci beaucoup. I will not let you down."

* * *

That night Fleur let her thoughts sprint from the letter she had written to Aurelién Barreau, to her morning training, to the announcement at supper by the Headmistress. The announcement that was the final confirmation in her eyes that her plan was the correct one. Madame Maxime's grand reveal at dinner had made John stare at her through those mirrored lenses and had made Jezebel and Felix ask Salomé if she had known it was the Triwizard when Salomé had 'revealed' the reason for John's arrival back on their first trip together to Saint Germain. Her playful lie that had become the truth. A non-serious joke that suddenly the teachers and headmistress at her school believed. A lie that because John went along with it with such zeal, seemed the truth.

Doing her classwork at the large desk she and Fleur shared in their room, Salomé thought of John. It was a testament to her current state of mind that the announcement of a Quidditch and a Dueling tournament in tandem with the regular Triwizard Tournament was not her primary focus. Sebastien had said the boy represented the most elite bodyguard program in the world. And, as hard as that was to believe even with all that she had seen, she kept returning to the same thought. The same thought that her best friend was musing upon.

She _had_ been lying when she had made up a past for Fleur's mysterious 'cousin' when they had first met on that shopping trip. There hadn't been even a crumb of truth to what she had said, and she had been less than serious when she had smirked through her words. Yet, suddenly, her deception was the accepted truth. _What kind of people could make reality from lies?_

* * *

Dolohov apparated into the Ancient House of Black only to find a dark curse headed his way. It was instinct alone that saved him from the first, but it was practice that had him countering the second spell, and then on level ground for the third. He now recognized his opponent, the spitting image of Bellatrix, though younger by almost twenty years.

"_Avalmorn_. _Vecali_. _Hespa sevre_. _Caliburne_." The dark haired woman fired, words flowing together as the Gaelic quartet of spells left him wincing when avoided the first three only for the flaying curse to catch his upper arm. Blood was in the air, and she grew more savage, her grin widening. "_Inculca_ _Maxima_. _Mortiari finitem_. _Sessulsetta_." He blocked with a compound shield. Then countered.

"_Dridex. Venca simulsen. Gretri vetta. Braxiocalghen_." Much like the witch she so closely resembled, she spun and flipped out of the way of most of his assault, only sparing a small shield to redirect the bone-exploding curse. The two stood twenty feet apart, breathing quickly, eyes narrowed. Clapping broke the moment.

"Well done Miss Black, very well done. I do not remember the last time someone has touched Antonin." The two spun to face the voice from the top of the stairs. Voldemort stood looking down on the duo with an amused smirk on his lips, his Shadow at his heels. He waved a hand and repaired all the damage the hallway and first floor had taken from the brief fight. "I take it your mission was a success." Dolohov spun his wand into its holster much like an American gunslinger, and bowed his head slightly.

"Of course, my Lord. I had the added privilege of killing the commander of the french _Dague Group_, a Timofey Pierre, and leaving the scene with Mance Chervaux seemingly having tried to stop me." The Dark Lord nodded in approval.

"Very well done. It has also come to my attention that Sirius Black has been availing himself of this house's library. Ensure that there is nothing...incriminating there."

"As you will it, it shall be done." With a wave, he dismissed Dolohov, and his blazing gaze turned to the girl.

"It appears you are ready for your mission."

"Of course, my Lord. I serve at your leisure." Her curtsy was flawless, deep, and unmistakably subservient.

"Good. I took advantage of the slave quarters in the back gardens to stow your next target, and placed a pensieve there for your use. Take your time, this needs to be flawless." The woman raised from the show of deference.

"I will not shame your faith in me with anything less than perfection." Nymphadora Black promised, eyes strong in her certainty.

* * *

**N/B: \The Commander's identity can be inferred from what is given, but it is not necessary for the future plot to figure it out. **

**\ It is hard to convey a speakers verbal patterns in prose when they do not often use filler words or phrases, so if President Clinton's words do not feel like what he would say to readers alive during his presidency, you have my regret.**

**\Dolohov is supposed to be one of the Dark Lord's best duelists and killers, I hope this chapter reinforces that fact.**

**\With the increased presence of Dueling in this story, more and more original spells will be used. If y'all want a seperate 'fic' of just the characters and spells, let me know. If y'all have other ideas, let me know as well.**

**\NOTE! It will never be necessary for y'all to remember what each of the spells I make for this fic do. I add all the new spells that I do to expand on the limited combat spells shown in Canon, with the hope of enriching the world. **

**\Rizal was a real person, and was instrumental in inspiring Filipinos to actively seek freedom from Spain and later the United States. (Originally, my character had a different name, and was the son of the president of the Philippines (a man who was once an infamous extrajudicial enforcer of the war on drugs and the drug trade. However, it was brought to my attention that he recently cracked down on the freedom of assembly, speech, and other values that my boyfriend and I (as Americans) find dear****. Several Filipino's (Including the reviewer, '**_The Crucible_**') requested that I change my characters name. As it would not effect my story, and I had not done due ****diligence**** in my research of the man whom I originally named Florentin after, I did.)**

**-Note- I will leave _The Crucible'_s review up (as well as the other few reviewers who also notified me of my error), as they deserve the credit for educating me on where I failed as a researcher and writer. I have no intention of trying to hide my ignorance, nor my failures. It is the job of a writer to be diligent in research, and prudent when referencing reality. I am thankful that when I failed, you the readers corrected me. Thank you. -Endnote-**

**\Being a Chevalier in France is roughly equivalent to being Knighted in Great Britain, it is an earned title with great social significance.**

**\A Livre was the currency of The Kingdom of France and West Francia from 781 to 1794. In this AU, it is still the currency of choice for Magical France, though the slow modernization of more progressive parties (Like that of Laurent and Martin) are pushing common muggle currencies to replace it.**

**\The Paris Titans are, amazingly, a real life Quidditch team. They are the four time champions of the European Quidditch Cup. No other team in the European League has been champion more than once.**

**\Once more, if I use French words in my writing, the ****sentence**** makes sense even without it, so don't worry if you don't speak it. This is both to streamline dialogue, and so that I don't pad my word count with giant block translations of blocks of french. **

* * *

**Authors Note: **

**Almost a month wait for this chapter. Thanks for the patience, as always. This was a very difficult chapter to write. I wanted Beauxbatons to feel like a school, but also feel magical and fun. I battled long and hard to find a way to make reading about _school_ fun. I realize that fanfiction is generally a haven for nerds and those who probably enjoy classes, but not everyone does. I settled for breaking up the classes with moments from the rest of the world, a style that I plan to continue unless y'all loathe it.**

**From a glance at the world of the ****Akadimía, to Beauxbatons, to the reveal at the end, this was as fun a chapter to plan as it was to write, and the next chapter is looking equally grand. After all, I believe y'all have waited long enough for the schools to all meet at Hogwarts!**

**As the story continues, the final team rosters for the Quidditch Tournament, the people joining the Dueling ****Tournament****, and the Champions of the Tasks will all be revealed. Some should be obvious, but a twist or two may present themselves! **

**Semper,**

**Vi**


	9. They Who Suffer the Ambitious

**Relevant Inspiration:**

**Deprived by The Crimson Lord**

**Disclaimer****: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, Filipino, nor Brazilian.**

* * *

_***Special Note***_

**\When crafting this story, I wanted to make only one major change to Canon, but a change that would result in all of the other differences that form the world of my AU. The butterfly-effect of my story stemmed from Voldemort doing one thing differently, he didn't underestimate Lily. **

**Canonically, Voldemort was supposed to be this terrifying, powerful, genius Dark Lord, yet he doesn't suspect the 'smartest-witch-of-her-age' didn't have ulterior motives when she hardly fought back at all in Harry's nursery? He didn't find it strange that a cornered hurricane with mama-bear instincts in full drive and armed with the rage of just seeing her husband _die_ pretty much just begged for him to spare Harry's life?**

**His single choice (in my world) to not be so trigger happy, to be careful instead of rushing in Gryffindor-ishly at the faint light of victory, resulted in no killing curse, no reflection, and therefore over a decade of not being a wraith to enact his plans and manipulations.**

**It was a Ravenclaw move to curse the defense professor's position. Smart, but (it my opinion) not clever in the long run. It was a Gryffindor move to charge in on All Hallows' Eve, killing Lily _freaking _Potter and not thinking for one second that it was too easy. That it could be a trap. How could the King of Cunning, the Quintessential Slytherin, show so little cunning?**

**Logic: It looks like a trap, it smells like a trap, if I was setting a trap then this is where I would set it.**

**Conclusion: It's probably a freaking trap!**

**Also, it always bothered me that Dumbledore tells Harry that Voldemort doesn't understand love. That this incomprehension is the Dark Lord's great weakness. If that was true, then how does he know to manipulate Bellatrix's love and devotion? How does he know to manipulate Slughorn's love of ambitious students (and flattery) to learn of the Horcruxes? How does he study Grindelwald for years and not understand that the infamous German's downfall was the result of Albus' love for Arianna? That Albus' love for Gellert meant he couldn't kill the German wizard?**

**Maybe you could try and argue Voldemort doesn't feel love, but you can _not_ argue that he doesn't understand the power of love. So, in my world, Voldemort uses the brilliance that even Ollivander credits him with, and takes a second to think.**

**He doesn't fall for a rather simple plan...a plan ****revolving**** around blood magic and sacrifice...two things he is intimately familiar with.**

**He doesn't waste a decade of his life because he can't stop and assess a suspicious situation. **

**He stops. He thinks. And then, he acts.**

**Voldemort is supposed to be a terrifying, powerful, mastermind. A peerless manipulator.**

**In this AU, he actually is.**

* * *

**Enjoy!**

* * *

-IX-

Neville couldn't help but grin at Seamus' dropped jaw when the massive boat rose from the depths of the Black Lake. In truth, he too was amazed by the ghostly presence that had materialized like an apparition in the morning fog. But as his grandmother had drilled into him, he kept his composure. Her voice, damaged from battles long ago, rasped in his ear now. _Neville, you are not only the Heir to House Longbottom, but you are the boy-who-lived_. _Do not let others see your emotions, for your emotions will betray your thoughts. If your enemies know how you think…_

_Then they will be able to take advantage of me. I know, grandmother. I know._ She had rapped him on the head with a ladle that she had been using to stir some pasta, and he had hissed. Not from the wooden spoon, but from the scalding water it had carried.

_Do not interrupt. It is a sign of disrespect. Take that Greengrass girl, Cyrus' eldest daughter. She doesn't talk out of turn, and she doesn't let people know what she is thinking. I can only pray that you will one day learn such a habit_.

He now was staring into the distance remembering that conversation, lost in the trail of memories, when he felt a tug on his shirt, and saw Hannah pointing at the sky. He followed her finger and this time was unable to keep his jaw from loosening slightly in amazement.

Soaring from the skies was a massive carriage pulled by seven equally giant pegasi. At least, he thought them pegasi until Hannah's next words.

"Abraxans! I've never seen them in real life. Did you know, Neville, that their feathers are a key ingredient in the plague-purge potion?" He kept his eyes on the carriage as he spoke to her.

"I've never heard of them before." She nodded.

"I only know because of the potion. In fact, something that _Hermione_ didn't even know is that there are now only three wild herds of them left in the world. One in France of course, but one in Peru and the last in-"

"Neville, mate, Durmstrang is getting off of their ship!" Seamus' voice came, interrupting. The Hufflepuff turned his gaze from the landing Abraxans and saw that his Irish friend was right. A large procession of students in heavy coats over what even at this distance had to be equally heavy robes. The rumor mill was alight with different reasons for the schools all gathering, but the teachers seemed resolute in their silence. Dumbledore had promised to explain everything that very night, after dinner, and anticipation had been growing all weekend.

"I hear it's the Triwizard." A dreamy voice spoke up, and Neville looked down to see Luna lying prone on the ground, poised in mid crawl with her eyes focused on something around ankle level. He, Hannah, and Seamus all passed a look around, a silent conversation. Seamus spoke.

"Luna, you've said some pretty mad things, but that might take the cake. Not only did they end the Tournament due to fatalities, but-"

"Luna, what are you doing." This time Neville interrupted. Clearly his friend had misunderstood the glanced discussion. The crawling blonde didn't look up.

"Romilda is wearing a colorful bracelet around her ankle. The same kind of anklet I have seen a few other students wearing. It is either the mark of a rising cult, or they have been corrupted by brinwhitts." She crawled between the sea of shifting legs like a cat on the hunt and Neville was stunned that no one had tripped over her yet. He shook his head in exasperation, but Hannah moved her hand to his shoulder.

"Luna, dear, I think Neville meant to ask why you are crawling?"

"Well," The effervescent girl smiled mid-prowl, "Brinwhitts are notorious for making their corrupted minions craft bright bands for them to live in. If I get close enough, I might be able to see the little critters crawling over the ankle-bracelets."

"Sometimes, Luna, you can be a bit flute." Neville smacked his friend in the back of the head.

"Just because I don't know Irish slang doesn't mean I can't tell when you're being mean." Seamus ruefully rubbed his head.

"I didn't say anything mean!"

"Oh don't worry Neville," Luna quipped, still focused on her target. "Seamus is just a gammy muppet. He feels useless when we high-class pureblood snobs talk about civilized culture." The trio looked down at her in surprise. Seamus was crimson.

"Why you _rotten_ _bure_! When did you learn Irish?"

"My mum was Irish, scuttered amadan!"

"You plastered spanner! Why did you never tell us?"

"I didn't think it mattered you gom mog!" This time she scuttled off into the crowd and was lost from view, but a scream from Romilda a few seconds later gave her position away. Neville and Hannah regarded Seamus' look of half-hearted anger freeze across his face, then morph into horror.

"Neville...Hannah…"

"Yes?"

"I just understood her." His eyes locked on theirs. "I just spent ten seconds arguing with Luna Lovegood, and I actually understood every word she said!"

* * *

The quartet gathered again that evening at dinner, as they always did. Seamus had calmed down at last, though he kept shooting their eccentric friend glances as if he had suddenly discovered a great secret and no longer fully trusted her. The look of a man who had just realized that three years of snide comments had actually not been made in secret, and had been in fact understood by someone who was often their focus.

Though the four were from three different houses, it was commonplace that they would sit together at meals. Originally, this had been contested by Snape, but after appealing his decision to their heads of house, the four students had gotten the ruling overturned. Now they all sat at the Hufflepuff table, left of the center walkway. Across from Luna, and beside Neville, Hannah broke the momentary silence among their group.

"What do you think of the new teachers?" Diplomatically, as always, Neville contributed first.

"Mad-Eye is scary. He's brilliant, but scary. From what I know he has put a lot of evil wizards in Azkaban."

"Aye, he should make a good Defense teacher. Unlike Lockhart our first year, or Lupin the following two." Luna frowned at Seamus' words.

"Lupin wasn't that bad his first year! After all, even Dumbledore wasn't able to find the monster." Her voice was clear, and to the wary Irishman's confusion there was no trace of her usual airyness. "And second year he did have to deal with the Curse, his sudden suriphobia, and moon-sprites." Ah, there it was.

"Whatever his deal was, I'm just glad we have a new one. He seemed nice and all, but we'll need to know more than cutesy spells if Neville's predictions come true." The group fell silent at his words, and they all considered what Neville had told them. If all the clues were to be believed, the followers of the dead Dark Lord were trying to make another play at power.

Lockhart had tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone for who knows what kind of dark ritual in their first year. A beast had been unleashed in the halls of Hogwarts the year after that, presumably by agents of the Dark Lord, and no one knew what had become of it after Ginny was found unconscious in a bathroom weeks after going missing. Third year had heralded Dementors, all to find and catch an escapee of Azkaban who had tried to assassinate Neville on at least three occasions.

The first time had been when he was camping with Luna over the summer in an attempt to find a crumple-horned snorkack. The two had barely escaped due to a quick thrown spell from the quirky girl who swore she had learned it from _Into the Looking Glass_. The second time when he had been showering after his Quidditch game against Ravenclaw and he had been forced to fly back to his common room half-naked to escape the Animagus assassin.

The third time had been close to the end of the previous school year, when the quartet were following a suspiciously behaving Lupin. They had been forced to abandon their stealth when the assassin had struck from behind after Hannah had been knocked out by the whomping willow. The children had retreated with their unconscious friend down a passage beneath the tree, and had attempted to make a final stand in the shrieking shack. However, Lupin and the stranger, revealed to be the infamous Auror Sirius Black, had helped stun and capture the attacker. Revealed to be named Pettigrew, the assassin had awoken, blown the roof off of the shack, and escaped after Lupin had fallen to his knees in the moonlight.

Hannah knew of the troubles Neville had faced from the Dementors, and the memories they brought forth of his mother and father giving their lives to try and save him. Many a night she had sat with him beside the common room fire comforting him after night-terrors. However, she had been unconscious that entire third attempt on Neville's life, and was the only one of the group who didn't know about the attacks. Neville had been adamant that his other two friends should keep it from her to avoid 'worrying her.'

Hannah remembered now the comment Luna had made on the train about a 'rat', and opened her mouth to bring it back up when a voice rang from the lectern at the head of the Great Hall. All eyes turned to the smiling face of the Headmaster, and all side-conversations died out.

"Good Evening! Now that we are all settled in, and everyone is here, I'd like to make the announcement that I am sure many of you have been waiting for. This year, not only will our lovely castle be home for all of us, but for some wonderful guests as well. And while their arrival means that Quidditch will be cancelled this year…" He held up one hand to stall the furious shouts that were starting to rise, "Our school has been given the honor of hosting the first iteration of a new and improved Triwizard Tournament!"

This time, a mere raised hand was insufficient in stopping the roar of noise from students, as suddenly everyone wanted to voice what they knew of the tournament. Three pairs of eyes turned to the smiling face of Luna, and Seamus shouted a stunned, "How in the bloody hell did you know!" Any response she could have made was cut off by the headmaster finally stepping back in to reign in the student body.

Dumbledore had let the raised voices continue for long enough, and with a pair of booms from his wand, the students quieted down, but eager faces and eager eyes all focused on him, and vociferous voices were all ready to bombard him.

"In addition to comprehensive safety measures, the International Confederation of Wizards has seen fit to add two more smaller tournaments to the main one, so that the Triwizard will have three different champions. There will be a Champion of the Tasks, a Champion of Dueling, and a Champion _Team_ of Quidditch." He once more had to fire off canon-blasts from his wand to quiet the students, already certain that his next words would generate even more euphoria.

"Champions will be awarded seven-_thousand_ Galleons and Eternal Glory." His voice rose to combat the cheering children. "In addition, the Champion of the Tasks will be given a spot on the Tournament Committee for all future Tournaments, the Champion of Dueling will be signed to a one-year contract with the six-time World Champions, the Swiss Templar, and…" While Dumbledore was shouting by now, a smile was clear on his face. "...though the Champion Quidditch Team will have to split their earnings among themselves, they will have a chance to play against the World Champion Irish in a friendly match in front of dozens of professional scouts and thousands of fans!"

This time, much to the displeasure of his potions master, if the huff of annoyance and muttered complaints were anything to go by, Dumbledore let the students cheer and talk. He remembered being in their seats once, and this would certainly be a year to talk about. After almost a minute, however, he recognized the need to move on, and he once more reigned in the exuberant crowd.

"Now, it is my honor to present...the Ladies and Gentlemen of Beauxbatons' Academy of Magic!" The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and a stream of blue clad students flowed in. They walked with a refined dignity that transfixed the Hogwarts students. At the Hufflepuff table, Hannah shook her head as she caught Seamus transfixed on some girl in the crowd of new students, but when Neville stiffened beside her, she followed the boy's gaze to the most beautiful girl...no, woman she had ever seen. A platinum blonde with high-cheekbones, smooth flawless skin, and an effortless grace that drew attention just as much as her beauty. However, more than the French stunner, it was the boy escorting her that snagged her eyes.

He was dressed as all the boys from the delegation were, in light-blue dress robes that matched the girl's outfits. Under those, they wore pressed grey slacks, vests, and pale blue buttoned shirts. It was the silver sunglasses that the beauty's escort wore that first caught her eyes. It was, however, his utter confidence that kept her gaze locked on him. Luna turned around to face her.

"Are you okay, Hannah? You are all red." The older girl blinked, and shook her head as if to clear her mind. Beside her, Neville tore his own gaze from the French duo to regard the girl beside him.

"I-I'm fine, Luna, nothing to worry about." Hannah stuttered out. The airy-blonde nodded, and turned back to the procession, where Dumbledore was kissing the giantess Headmistress' hand, and gesturing the new arrivals to sit with the Ravenclaw students. Beside Luna, Seamus made some half-whispered comment, and Neville kicked him under the table.

As the sea of blue settled in among their new peers, Dumbledore strode up the stone stairs to his lectern, and with a grand gesture, made his second great proclamation.

"And now, our friends from the east, the students of the Durmstrang Institute!" The doors swung open once more, and this time a river of red ran through. They wore the thick coats they had been seen leaving their ship with, but despite their bulky garb, they marched fluidly like a military formation. Heads and eyes locked to the front, chins raised, they held every bit the poise the French had, but an edge of danger marched with them. At the back of the formation, two students escorted their white-clad Headmaster.

"Blimey! That's Victor Kr-Ginny!?" Ron was standing up at the Gryffindor table, jaw dropped. Of course, his shout brought all the room's attention to the last two students. They were indeed the legendary Bulgarian seeker, and the youngest of the Weasley clan. Neville felt pain as he clenched his jaw tight, mind flashing back to when he had found her curled up in a ball in that bathroom.

There had been a trickle of blood from her nose, and her cheeks had been stained with tears. He hadn't been able to offload the blame he felt he deserved for not being able to find the monster, for not being able to find her in time to save her from whatever horrors she had faced. She had changed schools of course, but with the Weasley's not talking about it, even the gossip underground had only been able to guess at where she had gone.

"Why is he surprised, doesn't he know where his sister goes?" Seamus had turned to look at his friends. Neville shrugged and took a guess.

"The other schools didn't bring everyone, only their best and brightest, the students most likely to win the Tournaments. Maybe he didn't realize that Ginny was that skilled?" Luna laughed.

"I just think Ron was too busy worrying about his chuulrude infestation." The other three cracked smiles, having long decided that the messily-eating Gryffindor was an appropriate target for Luna's quirky accusations. The four saw their Headmaster assign the Durmstrang delegation to the Slytherin table, then return once more to his spot at the focus of the room.

"Unfortunately, our feast must wait a few moments more, for it will not be a panel of teachers or officials choosing the contestants for the Tournament of the Tasks, but an unbiased, magical creation. May I present the Goblet of Fire!" The ancient Warlock spun his wand in an intricate pattern, and a huge silk sash shot from beneath each table, one for each of the houses of Hogwarts, and two more for the visiting schools. Each was the color of the houses and schools they represented, and the six streams of color snapped through the air into a twisting swirl beside the headmaster.

The whirlpool lasted for a few breaths before it burst apart in thousands of scraps of flaming confetti, leaving a stunning goblet as tall as Dumbledore in its place. The students gasped and a few cheered at the amazing display of magic, but the Headmaster raised his hand once more to calm the crowd.

"Any student who wishes to represent their school in a series of three trying challenges may write their name and school on a piece of parchment and place it into the Goblet. I must warn you all, even with new security measures, the Triwizard Tournament can be very dangerous, and therefore no student under the age of sixteen may join." This was met by loud complaints and boos from the students, but after a few of the more overzealous youngsters got their jeers out, the room quieted down on its own. Dumbledore continued.

"Because of the new, three pronged aspect of this Tournament, any student who wishes to partake in the Challenge of the Trials must get their name entered by this time tomorrow, as the choosing will occur after the evening feast." The old wizard smiled, twinkling eyes gleaming, then finished. "And now, most importantly of course, welcome all to another year of classes. Tuck in." He waved his hands in a grand gesture, and heaping platters and overflowing baskets of food appeared up and down the tables. This elicited the loudest cheers yet, and the student's dug in with unmatched enthusiasm.

From behind Albus, Snape spoke, a clipped question.

"We are a day away from briefing the chosen challengers, and you still have not informed us of who will be in charge of student safety for each task." Albus sat down among the teachers. Several seats down from Severus, Mad-Eye grunted.

"I hate to agree with the old Snakelicker, but he is right." The grizzled ex-auror charged right through the potion-master's scathing retort. "We know the names of every single Judge for each event, the entire schedule for the events and tasks, and even the names and floo addresses of the bloody bureaucrats from the Ministry and the ICW in charge of this whole waste. Yet, despite the miles of red-tape that has been overcome, you still haven't told your staff who will have to adjust their schedules for the added responsibility of being a...what did Bagman call it...ah, a Master of Safety." The wizened warlock inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point.

"Very well. I had hoped to put it in tonight's teacher briefing for tomorrow, but more time to prepare would certainly be beneficial. Don't worry though, your schedules were already made lighter if you were chosen." All the professors turned to Minerva, who was in charge of organizing the class schedules, but her narrowed glare was only for the Headmaster, who had begun to eat.

"In his infinite wisdom, Albus saw fit to _not_ tell me why I was making three of your schedules lighter, but only to tell me that I didn't need to brief you as he would explain it to you in person. Evidently, he didn't." She turned to her colleagues. "Alastor, you are in charge of safety for the Tasks, as Filius, of course, will oversee safety for the Dueling tournament, and Rolanda is naturally in charge of the Quidditch tournament."

The small charms teacher coughed. "I will be thrilled to help ensure the safety of the students, but even with my new schedule I would think it prudent to choose an assistant to help each of us with our new jobs." The headmaster nodded in thought, and finished chewing a piece of particularly well-cooked duck.

"I can't see any harm in it. I trust you would like to choose this time."

"Considering it might take _you _another month to do so, yes Albus." Moody grumbled, but his old friend seemed unphased.

"Very well, just be sure to let me know as soon as you have, so I may submit the adjusted list to our Ministry." The teachers all gave small noises of agreement, and then tucked in to the food. Though many years older than their students, even teachers grew hungry at the end of ceremonious functions.

* * *

That night, walking back from the massive feast, Fleur and Salomé chatted over their first impressions of the Scottish school.

"I can't say much of the food here, but the architecture, c'est magnifique! Don't tell Jezebel, but I would go so far as to say it rivals Notre Dame." Salomé shook her head.

"I'm not sure I would go that far, but it is magnificent." She smirked and jostled her shorter friend. "Some of the boys were easy on the eyes." It was Fleur's turn to smirk.

"Oui, but only a few were actually anything special." She gave a not-so-surreptitious glance back at the boy who trailed their footsteps a few meters back. Noticing that her athletic friend had caught the glance, Fleur quickly tried to dodge the inevitable tease. "Did you see those two boys at the green table."

"Which two?"

"There was a boy who looked like a younger Aurélien, enough that it might be his cousin we have heard of." Salomé considered this, and nodded slowly.

"I think I do, but who was beside him?" She brought to the front of her mind the best still image of the feast she could, and focused on the blurry memory. "Uh...he had...darker skin?"

"Sometimes, Salomé, you are helpless! It was the boy Jezebel was with at the World Cup!" Instantly, the fog cleared, and Salomé could see him clearly.

"Ah, oui! You're right!" She cocked her head. "Do you think they met at the cup?"

"Non, of course not. She hates quidditch, she would have only gone if someone had invited her, someone special." The tall girl accepted the point. The three of them just about formed the perfect group. Of the three, Fleur was the academic. Jezebel was the socialite. Salomé was the athlete.

And yet, though they were different in so many ways, they worked so well together. Six years as roommates attested to that. But keeping a secret boyfriend had never happened before. Being attacked over the summer at one of their houses had never happened before. Being split up by a resurrected tournament had never happened before.

This year represented a massive change to the status quo of the trio, and the girls desperately hoped it would survive. Salomé voiced the problem they faced at the moment.

"...sucks that Jezebel wasn't part of our delegation." Fleur nodded.

"She was smart enough to, but she didn't try for grades. If she had wanted to, she could have been challenging me and Kristin for Top Student." The strawberry-blonde hummed in agreement.

"I was thinking-"

"That's always a dangerous pastime."

"Shut up. Anyway, I was thinking about how we could sweep this Tournament." Fleur was intrigued.

"How so?"

"Well, since you promised your dad you weren't joining the Classic Triwizard Tournament, you could still join the Dueling tournament. Between you, John, Darian, and Aurélien, we'd have a great chance of winning. The Zag only knew of a couple of major threats at the other schools." She scratched through her memories for the names. "Durmstrang has Palla Slivka, of course, but other than her, no one is obviously a major danger.

"And even Hogwarts, while they have Fladburry, Whiterose, and Matlock…" She trailed off when she saw her friends blank expression, "...you know, the three students who are on professional teams' reserve rosters?"

"Now I do."

"Ah. Well, the odds are at least one of those will lose against Slivka or some lucky Durmstrang, and I would take you or John over the other two any day!" Fleur flushed at the compliment, genuinely surprised by her friend's faith, but she couldn't help but acknowledge a flaw in the plan.

"Zag mentioned they have some spectacular girl in the Ravenclaw house. And, of course, the Boy-Who-Lived. I saw him today. I went to the hyff...hufel...the huffpuff…" She gave up. "I went to the yellow table for some bouillabaisse and he seemed stoic and composed. I let my allure flare a touch and he only barely responded. That's five skilled duellists for five of ours. An even playing field." Salomé waved away the point.

"If the 'Boy-Who-Lived' isn't Hogwarts' champion for the trials, I will do your laundry for a month. Dumbledore has to have been training him as the next great Dark-Lord killer, who else would the White Warlock think able to replace him when he eventually _ties the noose_? As for the Ravenclaw, she might be good enough to worry Zag, but he is just anxious because we have the perfect storm this year. Just look at our full lineup. Merde, _I_ might be the weakest link!" It was Fleur's turn to counter.

"Non, Salomé, you are better than Pasquier and Sersaint for sure." Too late, she saw the trap.

"Better than Sersaint? Your big...strong...burly...muscular…" Fleur smacked at her, but the taller girl scampered away. "...buff...manly ex. Mon dieu Fleur, I never thought I would see you speak ill of him in such a-ooowww!" Her teasing turned into a shriek when the silverette's wand seemingly leaped into action and showered her with stinging hexes. As Salomé ran away, laughing just as much as yelping, Fleur was about to follow, but John's words stopped her.

"Just because she doesn't know what you are planning doesn't mean I don't." She turned, and saw herself in those silver mirrors.

"_I _don't know what you are talking about." She lied easily.

"Tomorrow is a fork in the road, be careful which path you take."

"Was that a threat?" He laughed, and she felt her frustration with her friend turn into fury with John. She hated being laughed at.

"Fleur, you are being dramatic. I am your bodyguard. I wouldn't threaten you." Then he stepped until he was face to face with her, and though he was an inch or two shorter than her, she felt distinctly childlike in the presence of the younger boy. His voice changed, no longer light and youthful. Now it was cold, old and dark.

"Truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies." She rolled her eyes.

"Who was that? Rousseau? St. Germain? Napoléon?"

"Churchill, actually. You may not think so, but many of my lies and deceptions are for your safety. Should you follow the path you plan, you will no longer be a beacon of truth, and I will no longer need to don the cloak of lies." She laughed despite the cold that his words brought.

"Now who is being dramatic? A 'beacon of truth'? A 'cloak of lies'?" John shook his head, the beginning of disgust growing in his eyes, though it was masked by his glasses.

"You want to make your own way, to prove you are more than just a gorgeous face…" He hadn't meant to say that, but he carried on before Fleur could process what he had said. "...you can't do that when everyone knows you are being protected by a bodyguard."

"Revealing yourself as a bodyguard will only hurt you. You will lose the element of surprise!"

"On the contrary, it will free me up immensely. Think of all the time I will save when I don't have to play a part. Think of all the time I will have to ward off the darkness you want to prove yourself against if I don't have to carry on this Irish farce." He was centimetres away from her now, and the tension was palpable, heavy like a humid fog. John saw her allure beginning to flare in her passion, and he didn't want to attract more attention to this conversation, so he changed tactics.

"Even those who dislike you look to you and your family as an example of true Good in a dark world. If you leave that light, if you continue with this secret plan of yours, you threaten what your parents have earned."

"I am not my parents!"

"Clearly."

"Hey, you two!" They spun to face the open door to the carriage, where Professor Zaghloul was sticking his head out. "Save your energy for Tuesday! It will be our first practice as a dueling team and I don't need my two best duelists hurting each other without supervision!" His smile was clear even at their distance, and Fleur took the excuse to storm off with what she perceived to be victory. John waited a few seconds, shook his head and followed.

He didn't understand how anyone raised by Sebastien and Apolline, anyone with the intellect she had, could be so foolish sometimes. Then again, he admitted to himself, she was a teenager, one who hadn't been forced to grow up far earlier than a child should have.

His thoughts turned to a Mansion surrounded by mountains, and all the brutal training that had earned him a spot among its residents. For the first time since he had accepted this assignment, John thought about where his numeric siblings were, and what missions they were on. Last he had heard, 0783 was in the Caribbean on the hunt, 0759 was tracing a smuggling route between North and South Korea, and 0748 was in Jordan guarding one of the daughters of their King. He had no clue if they were still there, or where any of the other nine graduating survivors of his class were now.

He wondered if any of them had to deal with entitled brats. Gorgeous entitled brats, he amended, then he chided himself on the addition. Some emotions, even brutal training couldn't eliminate.

* * *

Salomé, to her complete shock, awoke the next morning to frigid water. She spluttered, spat, and tread among the gentle waves until she got her bearings. Just over a kilometer away, Hogwarts stood a towering bastion of light in the pre-dawn morning. But between her and it, standing on a pebble beach, John waited. His wand was presumably behind his back as he lounged in his familiar, languid, infuriating stance. The moon reflected off his glasses, two silver discs seemingly floating in front of his eyes.

The French girl pulled herself easily from the cold water and began her first salvo of spells. She didn't care that he had happily fallen back to their old training method now that they were near a large body of water. On the other hand, she didn't care that the freshwater of the Black Lake stung her eyes far less than the saltwater Mediterranean. Deep down, she found that grain of her being that reveled in the challenge, that enjoyed the pain. She found it, latched on to it, and let the energy fill her. She wasn't cold, she had the warmth of focus. She wasn't tired, she had the energy of anger and frustration. She wasn't out of control, she was composed with the passion of a goal. She would beat the boy at his game.

When he called time, she still hadn't reached the line he had drawn, but she let the anger and frustration recede until it was a small grain again, and she mentally pocketed it for later. Looking at the sky, she noted it was earlier than he normally called an end to the tried and true exercise, and she cocked her head quizzically.

"Already?"

"You weren't going to win today. Did you want to continue anyway?"

"Yes." He smiled at the blunt truth.

"I had something else in mind. Something I went through myself when I was being trained." Salomé perked up. The younger boy gestured for her to follow, and walked the perimeter of the lake with her. In the distance, she thought she saw a flash of movement, and she drew her wand quickly, but John motioned that it was okay. "First, it's just a motivated student from Hogwarts on her morning run. And second, I lined our path and training area in notice-me-not runes, she can't see us."

The strawberry-blonde nodded, but it turned to a smirk and she let out a small verbal jab. "You seem to attract nothing but motivated girls. If I didn't know better, I would think you were building a harem of powerful witches." Behind his glasses, John rolled his eyes.

"Again, two counter-points."

"Only two?"

"Shut up. As I was saying," He began, realizing he was echoing the rhythm of her and Fleur's bantering conversation from the previous night. "One: Jezebel." Salomé nodded in acceptance. The short chatterbox was anything but motivated. "Two: motivated wizards, really men as a whole, on average, prefer lifting weights to running. Generally, more runners are women."

"Not if it is a lone runner." He looked over at her. She elaborated. "Women don't like to run alone in the dark, whether it's morning or evening. They don't feel as safe as when it's bright outside." The bodyguard nodded in acceptance.

"True, but she is armed. A wand and the know-how to use it makes a difference." While Salomé agreed, she wanted to continue the debate, but they had reached their destination. At least, she assumed the strange pit was their destination.

It was maybe fifteen meters on each side, square, and filled with walls like a maze with no dead ends. It had been cleared of rocks and roots, and was entirely solid dirt. She scanned it with critical eyes, but couldn't see anything special. She gave it a second look, but nothing new stood out as an obvious objective.

"What...what is it?"

"A pit. The rules are simple. Win." Then, he pushed her in.

If she was honest with herself, she should have seen it coming. Like something from a muggle cartoon, it was too obvious an opportunity. She pinwheeled her arms trying desperately to keep her balance on the earthen edge, but after an agonizingly long second, she saw the futility, and gave up.

"Casse toi!" She got out before hitting the not-so-soft ground three-meters down. She rolled to absorb some impact, but only ended up crashing into one of the walls, bouncing off with a grunt and finishing her not-so-graceful descent on one side. With several prolific strings of insults, she pulled herself up to her feet. A shimmer of red gleamed to her left, so she stumbled forward into the cover of the wall she had crashed into, barely avoiding the stunner.

It was suddenly a heart-pounding game of cat and mouse...in a maze...with wands. She really should have seen this coming. Then, just as she was trying to scrap together a plan, a sound from past training broke the adrenaline-filled haze. While the Black Lake merely lapped at its shores, what sounded suspiciously like a large wave hitting the beach-

A massive dark shape thundered over the edge of the pit, blasting and battering Salomé through the maze and off of walls like a marble in a plinko casino. Pulling herself to her feet for the second time in less than twenty seconds, she realized the other twist the wave had brought.

The entire pit had become thick, heavy mud. Within ten seconds she had lost both of her conjured sneakers and fuzzy zebra socks, and was vowing unholy vengeance as she tried to escape the seemingly unhindered bodyguard.

Ten seconds after that, she caught a glimpse of John flicking his wand towards the lake, and she heard another wave crashing to shore, quickly racing up the beach to the pit.

_Dammit._

* * *

Easily navigating the familiar challenge, John climbed to perch on top of one of the walls, watching as another conjured wave battered the tall French girl around like a game of pinball. Off in the distance, he saw a girl in blue try to sneak her way back from the castle to the Beauxbatons carriage.

She was using a disillusionment charm, but he could _feel_ her every footstep on the soft earth. That and he had known she would be sneaking into the castle and back out that morning, so a couple simple latent runes had also set a small bell off in his head to her departure and arrival at each building.

He sighed, then returned his focus to Salomé. John cocked one eyebrow. _Clever girl_. She had figured out the other twist of the water. Slowly, the pit was becoming a pond, and the water level was rising with each new wave. However, to his amusement, she hadn't yet thought of the most magically economical way of combating the rising water. As it was, she seemed to have decided to resort to swimming, as she had been forced to do for their previous training.

John tapped his feet with his wand, activating the gripping runes he had spelled there. He could just morph the sides of the wall to create better foot holds, but that would be splitting his focus more than necessary.

The bodyguard waited for the next wave to force Salomé below water, then he began wall-running around the maze to attack the swimming girl from behind.

She didn't see him coming.

* * *

Fleur sat with John and Salomé for breakfast that morning, but refused to talk with her bodyguard. The tall strawberry-blonde noticed, but she was still too worn out from training to worry about it, much less to comment. Instead, she saved her energy to scarf down as much food as her two friends combined. The trio were in silence for most of the meal, before Fleur spoke aloud.

"Ah, our first potential challengers." The other two followed her gaze to the goblet, where several students were tossing small slips of parchment into the ancient relic. Two wore the black Hogwarts robes, one wore Durmstrang red, and the last two wore pale blue. Salomé frowned.

"Darian, I understand, but Florentin? If this Goblet picks the most capable, as they say, he doesn't stand a chance against Darian." Across the table, and out of the girl's view, Fleur had a ghost of a smile. She got the subtle message that Florentin going second had meant. _That makes a second favor I owe them, but it will be worth it._ John saw her smile, and frowned.

It wasn't long before the meal was coming to an end that a caramel-skinned girl in powder blue slid into the spot beside Salomé.

"Shalom, Sal'! Did you hear the news?" The gossip queen of Beauxbatons fired off the words in a heartbeat, and before any of the trio could respond, she charged on. "Kristin Hoffmeyer just got a red letter from the German Ministry! Supposedly it's a few days late because it went all the way to Beauxbatons before it got rerouted here! She had to go home!" Salomé blanched.

"Oh my God, did you hear who it was? Was it her grandmother? They were really close, weren't they?" Lucretia nodded emphatically.

"I don't know yet, but it had to be someone close judging by her face when she read it! I've gotta run though, yesterday I found out these two red-heads here at Hogwarts are organizing a betting pool for the Tournaments, and I need to change my bets before they change the prices."

"Why would they change the prices?" John asked, though he already knew the answer. It looked like he was talking to Lucretia, but behind silver shields, her eyes were locked on Fleur. Lucretia's laugh was like honey.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to know considering you just got to Beauxbatons, but Kristin was possibly Fleur's only rival when it came to grades. She was going to join the tournament too! If she's gone, stock in her winning will be worthless as soon as all the gamblers realize she won't be here to submit her name in time!" The gossip smiled and turned to face the Veela. "That means you have the best odds now, Fleur! I'm going to sell all my stock in her name, buy into your stock, and make-"

"Ma pere told me not to join the Tournament." Fleur said. Lucretia actually froze for a few long seconds then sighed.

"That sucks. Well, thanks for saving me money, now I'll have to bet on Darian, or someone else." Then a wicked smile crossed the girl's features. "Do you mind keeping that under wraps? If no one else knows, a bunch of people will lose a lot of money, and I can make a lot….especially if I spread the right rumors…" Lucretia cackled with glee as she slid off the bench. "Au revoir, I am off to make money!"

Salomé didn't see the tension in the glares her two friends were exchanging, and she broke the eyelock when she jostled John.

"Could you pass the...er...whatever that pile of white-and-brown goodness is…"

"Bangers and mash?" John offered, shaking his head and handing her the plate of sausage, mashed potatoes, and gravy. "For breakfast?"

"Oui, of course, it is food is it not?"

"At least have some peas too, some green food will do you good." The girl shrugged.

"As long as it is not belgian sprouts..."

"Brussels sprouts."

"Whatever."

* * *

Their first class of the day was together, and was deep in the dungeons with the green students, who they had learned were called Slytherin. Salomé and Fleur, of course, sat together. John sat alone. He surveyed the room, taking in everyone within the small room. A few stood out from the herd, but not many. There was a boy named Derrick who was probably two-meters tall and built like a rugby phenom, the duelist girl Salomé had mentioned named Whiterose, and...another Malfoy. This one, at least, was younger than his French counterpart. But this was an advanced class, so he had to be several years ahead of his peers in potions. Decidedly, an intelligent, and thus dangerous, person.

As he was finishing his analysis, the door swung open, and a man strode in, cloak flapping in his wake. An impressive entrance. Silence greeted him.

John watched as the professor made his way to the front of the classroom, and deposited a small journal, open to a bookmarked page, on the front table. Without facing the students, he drew his wand and began precisely flicking it back and forth, opening cabinets and floating various vials and containers to the main table. John noted that some more volatile substances were grabbed by hand. When the professor spoke at last, it was a drawling voice that slipped through the classroom.

"Malfoy, take attendance of our new students."

"Yes professor." The british Malfoy, Fleur noted, was almost as tall as his cousin, and certainly not hard on the eyes. He stood smoothly from his seat beside some girl with jet black hair, and moved to the journal on the desk, and picked up a quill.

"Alouane, Assia." He pronounced the foreign name easily, the trio noted with inadvertent appreciation. Salomé's teammate rose from her seat.

"Présent." She said, then sat again. Malfoy made a flick with the quill, then moved to the next name.

"Bardot, Salomé."

"Présent." The blond boy glanced at her, nodded, then made another mark.

"Botrel, Lucretia."

"Présent."

"Bouvier, Lilou."

"Présent."

"Carrel, Léopold."

"Oui." The ignoble flirt said lazily, trying a smile at Fleur, but she ignored him.

"Dach, Arkady."

"Présent."

"Delacour, Fleur."

"Présent." Her eyes met his, and he lingered for a second, blinked, then nodded. He made a note in the journal.

"Hoffmeyer, Kristin." Silence. Malfoy frowned. He tried again. Still no answer.

"She had to go home for a family emergency." Lucretia supplied, smiling at the handsome blond. He ignored the flirtatious batting of eyes, and made a small annotation in the journal.

"Thank you Ms. Botrel." Then he moved on, "Leblanc, Jasmin." John ignored the quidditch player's response to focus on Malfoy. Unlike his companions, he had noticed something in the fluidity of the british boy's response.

Malfoy had, unerringly and unhesitatingly recalled a witch's name after hearing her respond once to it. Lucretia was pretty enough to remember, but the boy hadn't been focused on her looks. That spoke to classical, court training.

Not many people, even in high-pureblood society, bothered to memorize everyone's names after learning them, especially not a halfblood like Botrel. Most would only memorize the names of those who could prove useful to them. John's evaluation of the boy rose.

Then the boy did something different.

After Gwen Popelin had been called, and checked off, the british blond frowned, gave a small snort as if he had heard a bad joke, and made a long line through the next name. John heard him mutter, _that's not possible,_ then he continued like nothing had happened.

Odd.

The blond continued.

"Rizal, Florentin."

"Oui."

The name game continued until, after Malfoy finished with, 'Zariri-Atallah, Sonia', he said, "All accounted for, Professor. One is absent with medical permission, another changed classes."

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You may be seated." The man turned around, and approached the table. He glanced at the page of names, and stopped. Then he scanned the faces before him. "How...strange…" He half muttered to himself, then scanned the paper once more. The students maintained a strained silence. The Beauxbatons students were clearly wondering if this was the norm, but based on the confused reactions of the Hogwarts residents, this was unusual enough to warrant total silence.

The professor had black hair, a hooked nose, and a generally cold demeanor. When he spoke again, his steady drawl carried across the students like a sudden chilly breeze.

"Mr. Malfoy, that will be five points from Slytherin. You missed a student." Malfoy froze, and though John couldn't see his face, he was sure the blond wore a look of confusion.

"Professor?"

"Sixth row back, fourth chair, at a table by himself."

"My apologies, Professor, it won't happen again." Malfoy said. The professor gave John a shrewd glare. John smiled tiredly, and stood. He cancelled the small rune he had drawn on the desk.

"Good morning Professor, my name is John Constantine. I am a transfer student from the College Cú Chulainn to Beauxbatons. It is possible my name didn't appear on your ledgers due to some clerical error." The dark haired man treated John to a piercing stare and single, drawn out word.

"Obviously." Then, after several tense seconds, he added. "It seems Beauxbatons has lowered their standards, here at Hogwarts we do not permit students to wear sunglasses indoors."

"It's a condition, sir. The glasses help."

"Surely, a student of one of the eight great schools of dueling would receive help curing any malady he might have."

"It's incurable, sir."

"That is up for debate. Let me see." The professor strode across the room to stand before John, and the room held its breath. Malfoy looked on with unveiled interest, as did Fleur and Salomé.

"Are you certain, Professor?"

"Unquestionably." John nodded once, then he lowered his glasses, eyes locked on the Professor's.

The first thing the potions master realized was that he was sinking into the pale green depths. Then he realized that he hadn't even cast _legilimency, _yet the boy's thoughts were bare for him to see. _Frustration. Regret._ It was then clear to him that the boy had no walls for his mind. Not even the barebones basics that every magic user had. Nothing.

Then, just as he began brushing aside the outermost thoughts, he realized the boy was _in his head._

Like a shadow in the night, like the Greeks at Troy, Mr. Constantine had slipped past his own probe and into the professors private sanctum. _Even the Dark Lord himself can't breach my defences, much less this easily!_ Suddenly, Snape realized that the boy had heard that mental revelation, and the older man was immediately throwing every possible defence he could bring to bear at the strange student.

Nothing struck, but as quickly as the boy had slipped past some of the strongest Occlumency barriers in Wizarding Britain, he was gone, and Snape found himself back in his body, in his first potions class of the day. The students all around were staring at the duo who had been eyelocked for several long seconds. Snape closed his eyes, then turned and walked back to his desk.

"You may wear the glasses, Mr. Constantine, but should I think you are sleeping, there will be vast consequences."

"Understood, Professor." John lowered the silver shields back over dead eyes. Students began to whisper, but Snape silenced them by turning to take in his class once more.

"Good Morning, and welcome to your first Potions class under my tutelage. For my Slytherin students, this is your first with our Beauxbatons visitors. Treat them with respect, and assist them should they ask for help." He turned and waved his wand to the board, and a long list of ingredients and instructions appeared.

"These are the instructions from brewing a Pest-Scourge Potion. You have one hour to complete it. Be aware, I will be quizzing you as you work over material you should already know. Be vigilant. Brewing is dangerous." He made sure to make eye contact with every student, lingering on John's face now that the glasses covered the dangerous green once more. "Begin."

The French delegation hesitated for a moment, but the Hogwarts students had shot to their feet and began, one member from each table gathering the ingredients while the other made basic preparations. Fleur was the first up, and she hurried to gather Lavender, Worrywort, and Sevenstrand Silk, the first three ingredients needed. John sighed, and shook his head at Salomé's inquiring glance.

As he was getting up to gather his ingredients, a round faced girl with straight brown hair cut to shoulder length nodded to him.

"Do you need a partner? You can join me and Peregrine." John looked between the short girl with a Lancashire accent, and the six-foot-five giant he had noticed earlier. "Ah, sorry. I'm Gemma Farley, Slytherin Prefect."

"John Constantine." He shook her offered hand and looked past her to the table, where the hulking seventh year was splitting the lavender in half lengthwise with surprising dexterity. "I'd be happy to join you. How can I help?" She smiled wide.

"Well, 'Grin has the lavender, I was going to crush the worrywort, could you unravel the silk?"

"Sure." He took a spot at the end of the table, half in the wall-side walkway because of the sheer space the larger Slytherin took up. As he worked, he studied the dynamic of the other two students. Gemma was cracking open the strange magical plant that had the shape of a mushroom, but were much more similar to clams. Every now and then, she would ask the tall boy a question, and he would usually just nod or shake his head in response.

On the few occasions where he did respond, he spoke slowly and cautiously, as if he was testing every word. After dividing the purple flowers, he began stirring the unraveled silk in clockwise, then changed direction with each new piece.

String. Two full stirs. String. Opposite direction, two full stirs. Repeat.

After exactly two minutes, they began syphoning in the juice from the crushed worrywort, three drops at a time, four seconds apart, for fifteen drops. John hated potions. Whoever had first discovered the processes to make each potion had been someone with too much time on their hands. Not like rune workers, who elegantly mastered the containment of magic itself into as few scratches as possible.

Fundamentally, John knew, both studies revolved around arithmancy, but where John loved the combination of arithmancy with the physics of energy, he hated corrupting arithmancy with chemistry. He was good at it, certainly. His MAB scores could attest to that, but he disliked it immensely.

Working with the two Slytherins went smoothly, and one of his least favorite classes passed rather quickly, culminating with a quartet of potion vials just the barest glowing hue off of Aegean Blue. Snape studied the concoctions, before awarding them full marks.

"Acceptable work, Ms. Farley, Mr. Derrick. How helpful was Mr. Constantine?"

"Quite helpful, sir. He caught a near error before it could corrupt the potion during step five." The Prefect answered truthfully.

"Too many flakes of dried hemlock?"

"Yes, Professor."

"I see. Tell me, Mr. Constantine, what would happen if you added forty-seven milligrams of iocane powder to a quarter liter of ethyl acetate?"

"Well, Professor, if the person drinking the result was less than ninety kilograms, a lethal cup of poisonous wine."

"And if they were heavier?"

"A perfectly tasty cup of wine and perhaps a nasty night of vomiting."

"How much would it cost to acquire such an amount in Brazil?"

"South America may be the potion-ingredient capital of the world, but iocane only grows in Australia, sir."

"That is not what I asked."

"I'm sorry, sir. I do not know the answer."

"Three feet of parchment on the distribution of potentially lethal potions ingredients by next Tuesday, Mr. Constantine." John figured this was revenge for the eye surprise, but he wasn't going to complain. He didn't need to earn this teacher's ire any more than he had already.

"Yes, sir." He returned to his own seat, a nod of thanks and a quiet farewell to his two class partners. Behind his group, Fleur and Salomé turned in their four vials.

"Perhaps the closest to perfect so far. Ms. Delacour, I presume you are the daughter of the French Minister of Arcane Defences?"

"Oui, Professeur."

"I have met him on two occasions, he is an exceptional investigator. Do you intend to follow in his footsteps?"

"No, Monsieur. I hope to be a cursebreaker." Snape raised a single eyebrow.

"That is a very difficult field to be accepted into."

"I do not want an easy road."

"That is clear, Ms. Delacour. Carry on." She inclined her head respectfully and returned to her seat with her friend. Snape's face seemed to grow less irritated, though it was an admittedly minuscule change, so John wasn't sure.

"Ah, Ms. Granger, a perfect potion as always…"

* * *

The next class of the day resulted in the French trio splitting, with John and Fleur going to Runes, and Salomé going to her least favorite class. Arithmancy.

Whereas Fleur had passed the class a year ahead of her peers, Salomé had not been that mathematically skilled, and had barely passed the year after. So, while Fleur was finished with four years of the class, and John of course was exempt because this was John they were talking about, she still had to pass her third year of it. Last year she had been one, infuriating percentage point from passing. One...damn...point. Arithmancy 3, here she came….again.

She arrived at the class right before the bell tolled, having been forced into two detours by a series of _moving staircases_. Therefore, all of her fellow students were paired up at tables, leaving only one open spot. At the very back. She hated sitting in the back.

Salomé slid into the last chair right as the professor walked in, a woman who was dressed in casual robes over an outfit that looked like it belonged on some muggle punk-rock star. She looked like she had just woken up.

"Sorry everyone, the Weird Sisters unveiled a new album at their concert last night, and I stayed up too late at the after party!" She smiled the kind of wide grin teens threw to each other after an inside joke. "I woke up approximately eight minutes ago and am currently running on a hangover-potion, a cheering-charm, and baseless optimism that I'm not going to regret only having an hour-and-a-half of sleep!" The students laughed, and Salomé had a sudden flare of hope. She might just make it this year.

Beside her, a girl with dirty blonde hair and a dreamy expression muttered something under her breath. Salomé focused on her for the first time. Were those _corks_? And radish earrings?

"Pardon moi, I didn't hear what you said."

"Oh, I was practicing a greeting in french, but then I realized I don't really know french, and I didn't want to accidentally declare my undying love for you." Salomé blinked. Then again.

"Thank you? I...I'm not sure how to respond?" The other girl smiled lazily.

"You speak really good English, better than your other schoolmates at least. Did you grow up muggle or do you have a scuttlebug infestation?"

"Uh...quoi?" The tall girl was flummoxed.

"Scuttlebugs can translate anything you say into the language most spoken where they live. Sometimes, tourists are lucky enough to be infected with local scuttlebugs, but occasionally things get really confusing if they get infected _before _travelling."

"Erm...well...I don't know about...scuttlebugs...but I'm muggleborn. I grew up with my brother in the muggle world. We have to learn English from a young age at school." The strange girl nodded.

"Do you live with your brother because your parents died? My mom died when I was little, but my dad didn't." If Salomé had been drinking water, she would have choked.

"Uh, oui. My parents died in a terrorist attack when I was young. It was crazy for a few years, but then my brother was able to get..._comment dit_…"

"Custody?"

"Oui, merci. He got custody of me. I've lived on base with him ever since."

"On base?" Salomé opened her mouth to respond, but the professor had finished her quick preparations and was addressing the room.

"Sorry again for the wait, and good morning everyone!" Her smile was infectious. "I am Professor Vector, but you can call me 'Vec' when other teachers aren't breathing down our necks!" Salomé felt a huge wave of relief crash over her. This teacher was really cool.

"This is year three Arithmancy for our friends across the Channel, and year two for us." The strawberry-blonde perked up at that. Fleur would kick herself if she knew the british school taught at a higher level than even Beauxbatons well-respected program.

"As today is our first class together, and I still have to learn your names, I have designed a fun problem on the board. Called the Eschen Equation, it has multiple possible solutions, and I can learn more about how you think by how you solve it. None of you should be challenged by it, but if you are, feel free to raise your hands and I will give you a hand." Almost immediately, a timid student in black and red (_was it griffin d'or?_) raised his hand, and she went over to help him.

"I am sorry, I never got your name. I'm Salomé." She stuck her hand out, and her strange seatmate looked at it. Then she took it, shook once, and let go quickly.

"I think I remember that the French only shake once...or something...I'm Luna." She looked from the french girl to the board. "Do you think we should solve this using the Quentenic Formulae or the Siphod Triangle...I mean, the Tagettic Theory could work, but it would be very round-a-bout." Salomé blinked. Then she groaned, and brought her head to desk in despair.

"Why are all my friends smarter than me? Not just a little, but leaps and bounds. It's just not fair." Luna patted her shoulder, and placed a necklace of bottle caps she produced from a pocket in her robes over Salomé's head, pulling the girl's hair through so it could sit correctly on her neck.

"It's okay. I'm certain you are far better than me at certain things. That's just the way things are….or it could be you were born under a waxing quail cluster passing our galaxy in deep space. Bad luck that." It was a testament, perhaps, to her adaptability that Salomé had quickly come to accept the strange girl's quirky way of talking.

"I like that Luna, I've always wanted to have something to blame. A 'waxing quail cluster in deep space' was it?"

"Yep."

"Cool, I'll remember that. So, what were those methods you were saying? I was just going to plug in seven and see what happens. That usually works to some degree." The dirty-blonde nodded.

"Temmet's Rule of Seven. Though for this problem, that would…" She stared at the board for a second. "That would bring six of the thirteen petals of equations into balance…" Salomé perked up.

"That leaves seven petals! Pure chance? I think not!" Luna rolled her eyes.

"Certainly not a coincidence. What if we did the Heptagon Rule next?" Her new friend narrowed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

"Uhhh…" She grabbed a pad of paper and Luna's teal-inked quill. "Then these would equal out and then…" Luna saw the girl was stuck so she butted in.

"Then we can use the Siphod Triangle like this. We could have done it from the beginning, but it's easier this way." Salomé slowly nodded as she took in the quick scratchings of Luna.

"Uh, why does that work?" She asked, pointing to an annotation the spacey girl had solved beside one of the petals.

"Because it does."

"Oh."

"Yep."

There was silence for a few seconds as Luna sketched out their maths and then drew the new, nearly solved flower of formulae.

"I could explain the proof for why it works, but that could take hours." Salomé shook her head violently.

"Nope, no need for that. It just works. I'm fine with that." Luna smiled widely, and guided her older companion through the equation all the way until the end. Salomé's eyes were wide.

"That...that is actually quite cool."

"I think it's pretty."

"You know what? Sure. I can see that."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being nice."

"Me? Nice? You're the one who just made Arithmancy make some sense."

"No...I mean sure, you're welcome, but..." It was the first time she had seen Luna stumble over her words. "Not everyone is nice. But you are like Neville, Hannah, and Seamus. You are nice."

"Are they your friends?"

"Yep."

"Then I would love to meet them." Salomé broke into a wicked grin. "Were they also born under a 'waxing quail cluster in deep space'?" Luna burst out into peals of laughter.

* * *

The three french friends came back together for lunch, and then their third and final class of the day. History. Fleur looked determined as she walked into the classroom, ready to fight her way through her least favorite class. She had a quill and an inkpot divided into six compartments for different colored inks, a notepad with dedicated blocks for side notes and doodles, and a driving determination to make it through the next two hours.

Ten minutes in, and her eyes were blank, her face was slack, and she tried desperately to listen to the droning ghost. It was a valiant effort, but futile.

* * *

Dinner brought all three schools back together. Every student was talking excitedly as the feast slowly finished, glances thrown frequently to the teacher's table and flickering flame of the Goblet. And they didn't have to wait for long.

Dumbledore stood, and strode to stand beside the ancient artifact. Without even having to raise a hand, the students fell to silent anticipation. He smiled at the hundreds of eager faces turned his way.

"Good evening to you all. I had originally planned a grand speech, but I am certain none of you would want to hear it." Some scattered laughter met this, and his smile widened. "So, without further ado, the champions of the Goblet of Fire!" With a flourish of his wand, the lights in the room dimmed slightly, and the goblet's flames flared red. A puff of smoke brought a slightly burnt slip of paper flickering through the air and into the headmaster's hand.

"Representing Durmstrang, Viktor Krum!" The lights brightened again, and Durmstrang erupted into cheers. Fist pounded on the table, and a throaty roar thundered from dozens of throats. Many other students across the schools joined in loudly cheering, and Fleur was surprised to see that Salomé was one of them.

"If he is in the main tournament, he can't be a part of the Quidditch team! We could sweep this! We could win all three!" Fleur shook her head ruefully at her friend's exuberance. John just watched sadly. Viktor stood up and walked to the goblet to shake Dumbledore's hand, and then through a door behind the staff table. Slowly the cheering died down, and the lights dimmed once more.

Again, the flames turned red, and with the crackling of flames and a whoosh of smoke, another slip of parchment shot into the quick hand of the Headmaster.

"From our own beloved school, Cedric Diggory!" This time, almost four tables worth of students exploded in noise. It seemed to the french that this boy was popular among all the houses. A handsome youth with brown hair stood from the yellow table, shook off some of his friends' enthusiastic back-smacking and hair-ruffling, and confidently met Dumbledore for a handshake before following Krum into the antechamber.

Salomé noticed that Luna and a few students beside her seemed relieved by the choice, but she couldn't make heads or tails over the movement, so she waved it aside. John saw her inquisitive glances.

"Make some new friends?" She laughed.

"One good friend, and potentially three more."

"Congrats are in order? Doubling the amount of friends one has is something to be celebrated, surely!"

"Oh shut up!" She smiled though, and then the whole hall quieted for the third and final name.

The lights dimmed.

The flames grew crimson.

A name flew up.

The Headmaster caught it.

"From our wonderful friends in France, Fleur Delacour!"

The french shot to their feet in cheers, as both friend and foe alike sought to show more pride and solidarity than their two competing schools. Salomé, however, did not stand. Her eyes were wide and accusing, and her jaw slightly agape. Fleur spared her an apologetic glance, but stood and made her way up for the familiar hand shake, and a short walk to the door.

Through the door was a short stairway to a well lit room, with Viktor, Cedric, the Durmstrang Headmaster, and Madame Maxime. Her headmistress seemed only somewhat surprised, but she still embraced her student. As they stood ready for the Hogwarts Headmaster to arrive, they were first visited by another. A student in the same livery as Cedric walked slowly down the staircase.

"Neville? Did the headmaster...oh no."

"I promise Cedric, I didn't do it. I told you I wasn't going to." Fleur saw the older boy tense for a long moment, then sag in acceptance.

"I know. It's All Hallows' Eve." The boy-who-lived nodded, and the two seemed to reach an understanding. But just as quickly as silence regained the chamber, the door burst open, and several figures stormed in. The Headmaster, the hook-nosed potions professor, the strange teacher with a staff and a magical roving eye, and a strange british man she felt that she recognized but couldn't put a name to the face, all crashed down the stairs. Dumbledore grabbed Neville by the collar.

"Did you or did you not place your name in the goblet!" His voice held more anger than she could remember ever hearing from him, and she spoke before she thought through her word.

"He is but a little boy! How could he have?" Neville shot her a glare, but it was Snape who spoke next.

"A valid point, Ms. Delacour. Now, Neville, did you get another student to place your name in the goblet?" The boy opened his mouth to reply, but the teacher with the magical eye interrupted.

"That's not possible, the goblet is goblin made. It wouldn't let someone deceive it that easily. Bad business if it were that simple to fool." Again, the headmaster seemed placated by the answer. This time Karkaroff spoke up.

"Albus, this looks like your school is trying to cheat to get a hand up in this tournament. I thought you were more noble than that." Madam Maxime nodded. The handsome older boy from the yellow table seemed to have enough.

"I'm sorry if this is out of turn, but all that has happened is accusation after accusation have been thrown around, and Neville hasn't been given the chance to defend himself. He told me he didn't submit his name, and I believe him. He's a good bloke." Fleur didn't care if the boy-who-lived was a 'good-bloke'.

"It would be just the chance for him to gain _even more_ fame. Not to mention glory and seven _thousand_ galleons! Many would happily kill for that, much less cheat." Neville had had enough. He gathered every possible mote of patience his grandmother had drilled into him and let it loose.

"Headmistress, Headmasters. Professors. I do not have, nor have I ever had, a desire to be a part of this tournament. Sure, I may have thought it would be fun as a challenge to compete against the best that schools as famous as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons can offer, but I would not submit my name into a tournament that has been so frequently famous for its lethality. Especially not after being told I was too young to join, or after promising a friend I would not.

"As for Ms. Delacour's accusations, I don't need the fame, I don't want the money, and I neither need nor want the danger. My life is dangerous enough as it is." Fleur didn't understand that part, but before she could ask, Dumbledore had turned to the familiar, unnamed man.

"Ludo, there is no way to remove a competitor from the competition once their name has been chosen?"

"No, certainly not. The Cup's choices are magically enforced. That is what made it such a powerful tool for so many years when it was in the hands of bankers and blood-dealers like the goblins. Once you are chosen, you can't break the contract until the terms have been met. It's magically binding!" The weight of finality filled the room before Karkaroff snorted in disgust.

"I do not like this, we will talk further tomorrow. Let us go, Viktor." He stormed out, followed by the Bulgarian Seeker, who seemed to almost shoot his fellow champions a sad look.

Madam Maxime was next to excuse herself. "I will go deal with the Durmstrang Headmaster before he does something rash."

"My Lady, as an old friend I believe I can better reach-"

"Albus, I can reach his pride. That will work more certainly than any pleading." She raised her nose, "Do not mistake this for easy acceptance of this failure of security protocols, I expect you to discover what has allowed this to occur." She turned to the other adults in the room. "A pleasant evening to you all." And with that, she left. Fleur followed quickly behind, lost in equal parts pride at being chosen, and confusion at everything that had followed.

* * *

Having been sent back by her headmistresses as Maxime went a different way to head off Karkaroff, Fleur saw Salomé waiting with a crowd of Beauxbatons students outside the carriage. Whereas her schoolmates looked thrilled, and some even held quickly made signs celebrating her being chosen, her friend wore a blank look somehow more frightening than a snarl.

Fleur knew Salomé would be mad, but surely she could patch it up. It wouldn't be hard to make it up to the strawberry-blonde as soon as the silverette could make her friend understand why she had had to lie. As Fleur approached, Salomé strode out to meet her.

"Look, Salomé, I'm sorry that I-" The taller girl's fist crashed into Fleur's face with all the force of a hurricane making landfall. The veela squawked in pain and spun to the ground like a pierced bird, hands coming up to clutch her already swelling jaw. Agony clashed with surprise on her flawless features.

"You, Jezebel, and I all swore we would never keep secrets from each other. Jezebel broke her promise, now you broke your promise. Am I the only one who kept her word?"

"I-"

"Shut your mouth. I don't want to hear you lie again." She stormed off, the crowd silent behind her, and her ex-best friend now sporting a massive blackening bruise. Fleur almost cried out in pain again as she tried to work her mouth to shout after Salomé. John's voice filtered down from above.

"That looks dislocated, if not broken. You should get it checked out." Then he walked after the tall girl. Fleur drew her wand and _episkey_ed her jaw, then she groaned in pain as she had to speak to cast a more advanced healing charm. Hissing as she felt her jaw pop back into place, the veela blinked away tears of pain.

"I thought you were being paid to protect me?" She knew how pathetic her words were, but they were quiet enough that the rest of the students didn't hear them. John, however, could. He called back over one shoulder.

"Oops."

* * *

His feet took him along the path she had unknowingly traced under the pale moon, and he found her among the jumbled walls of the pit. She was striking the smallest of the walls, still almost ten feet tall and too big around for her and three friends to encircle with held hands. Each of her hits came with a small grunt of frustration, and a mixture of fists, elbows, knees, and feet rained down on the packed earth.

Though the strikes were targeted, and looked practiced, it was clear she was no expert, and she began to slow as the exertion caught up with her. Sweat began slow trails down her forehead and she eventually collapsed. John slid down into the pit with her, and sat down a few feet beside her. He waited for her breathing to steady, then he broke the quiet air with soft words.

"She's frustrating me nearly as much as she is frustrating you." Salomé snorted.

"I don't get why she is...so brash all of a sudden."

"She wants to prove herself."

"To whom? Why? She already is all but the perfect girl! She's a bombshell, she is smart, funny, compassionate, thoughtful...well most of the time at least...but she's fantastic at magic, _and her dad is the Minister of Arcane Defenses!_ She literally can go wherever and do whatever she wants!" John let silence reign for a few long seconds, before he spoke up.

"People see a Veela, she just wants them to see Fleur." He held up a hand to the tall girl. "I'm not saying what she did was right, as a matter of fact it pisses me off and makes my job much more complicated, but I at least understand _why _she did it." This time it was Salomé who let the quiet rule the night until she finally broke it.

"I might be able to understand the _why_ now, thanks to you, but that doesn't excuse what she did. She left me, and our school, high and dry in this competition… all because she couldn't put aside the chance to _prove herself?" _She took a second to compose herself, then she met John's obscured eyes.

"I took some time last night to look up the rules to this tournament. If Fleur gets injured enough to warrant a replacement, I _will _volunteer to take her place and win this all. If she doesn't, and she keeps winning the tasks unmaimed, then I will win the dueling and the quidditch tournaments for our school."

"Why do you care so much?"

"Beauxbatons brought magic into my life. The Delacours showed me a family I wished that I had, that I would have today if not for the random whims of a terrorist." A single tear rolled down her cheek. "My whole life, I have been saved or protected by others. One day, you will be gone, and the Delacours and I won't have you to protect us. I want to be able to protect them, the people I love, when...when you are gone. I want..." John saw the naked truth in her eyes, and the final sentence she couldn't say out loud.

"You realize…"

"Yes, maybe more than even you do. " She interrupted. He nodded once, resolute.

"I want you to see what this means, see what you will have to go through, what you will be sacrificing."

"Show me." The bodyguard nodded again, and slowly lowered his glasses. He knew he would see the roiling turmoil of fear in her, but also the unflinching strength of her desire to protect. He knew she would see the feelings of pain, of suffering, of seemingly hopeless struggle. She would see what she was volunteering to go through, something even he hadn't asked to do when the Akadimia took him from his foster parents when he was four. She would see the memories necessary to give her the last chance to back out, to have a chance at normalcy. She would see the ways in which her body would give up, in which her mind would all but shatter, in which her very soul would burn in the trials ahead.

John could feel the turmoil within himself. He shouldn't be feeling this way. He shouldn't be teaching her these things, much less showing her them.

But he lowered his glasses.

He laid bare the consequences of her choice.

And she saw.

* * *

**N/B: \The Irish slang: [Flute- a little silly, weird] [Gammy muppet- useless fool (goof)] [Rotten bure- Horrible/disgusting woman] [Scuttered amadan- Drunken fool (nitwit)] [Plastered spanner- Very drunken idiot] [Gom mog- Stupid fool (unintelligent)]**

**\While it doesn't really matter if you know the slang translations, I tried to show a difference between the styles of insults a native Irishman would throw, and one who only learned the language from another Irish person. Especially considering she would have learned silly insults as a kid from her mom. Thus Seamus is actually swinging with insults while Luna is calling him silly and dumb in different ways.**

**\Lots of exposition and lore in this chapter. As usual, old questions will be answered, new questions will arise. C'est la vie. Such is life. Please take note, as stated in the foreword, all odd differences and changes stem from that one 'shatterpoint'. Logic and deduction _can_ make everything clear. Fear not though, by the end, y'all will understand every little change! [B/N: Trust me, when puzzle pieces start clicking, the revelations are mind-bogglingly awesome. Even the rough plan of this story blew my mind when Vi explained it prior to the writing of the first chapter.]**

**\Fladburry, Whiterose, and Matlock are real characters. Again, however, they are canon due to _Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery._ I may or may not have increased their strength, but only so that Hogwarts (as Beauxbatons historic rivals) have even a chance against the powerhouse French.**

**\_Avoir la corde ou cou_, or _to tie the noose_, is the French version of the English expression 'to _kick the bucket'_. Both mean 'to die'.**

**\Fleur is a bit of a brat at times, and this chapter has some of that. She is trying to find her place in a world that is quickly changing. It isn't easy going from being the best you know to suddenly being second best no matter what you try. She has some maturing to do...luckily, challenges help build maturity, and there are plenty of challenges in her future.**

**\And, at last, the eyes are (mostly) explained...well, at least why wizards don't like looking into them. :)**

**\Had lots of fun writing the Arithmancy scene, hope y'all like it!**

**\I tried to make the antechamber scene seem hectic and slightly crazed, because that's what the champions and teachers would have been feeling. If Neville seems surprisingly calm, realize who raised him, and that he has gone through crazy crap every year. He was fully ready for stupidity to happen, he just hoped it wouldn't.**

**\And we have the first half of a giant literary parallel in the making. Salomé has made her choice about what she cares about most, and what she is willing to sacrifice for it.**

**\For the Harry/Fleur fans who have been ceaselessly patient, and for those who can't wait for the next action-packed chapter, I truly believe you will love Chp. 10! The BF has been working his fingers raw writing and editing some epic scenes!**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Fourteen _thousand_ words! Fourteen! THOUSAND! **

**Y'all are wonderful, as is the continued support. This was actually done on Sunday, but it took three extra days to edit this monstrous chapter. As is, there are probably a handful of errors still in hiding, so if you catch them try not to flay me alive!**

**Also, if you are from a country that I mention, or are fluent in a language I sprinkle into the story for fun, and you catch any mistakes, please let me know. I will fix them as soon as possible! (i.e. If I ****misname your**** currency or capital or the like, please correct me!)**

**Next chapter will, like this one, probably start after a small time skip. It should be fairly obvious, but this is a heads-up!**

**If you like this, love this, or are secretly Evanna Lynch and I am butchering Luna's character, let me know in the comments! The ****literally**** make me smile like a kid on Christmas.**

**Love all of y'all, stay safe!**

**Semper,**

**Vi**


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